Fixation
by Tempestt
Summary: Brutally murdered then resurrected, Bulma Briefs is a changed woman. Can Vegeta show her that there is nothing to fear but fear itself or will she forever stay a prisoner of her own mind?
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own or profit from Dragon Balls Z.

A/N: Disclaimer time so gather round. This is a combination of a couple different genres. Psychological thriller, crime drama and romance. All my favorites! To be warned, if you don't enjoy any of these elements you may not be interested in this story. There will be implications of torture in brief flashbacks and behavior, but nothing graphic. There is disarticulation of body parts, but again, nothing graphic. I'm surely not going to write out some grisly, bloody scene. Mostly I'll be dealing with the emotional aftermath. I'm excited to write this story, since it's different from anything I've done before. I hope you all enjoy it!

_Fixation_

Prologue

Bulma Briefs wasn't so much pleasantly buzzed as she was happily sloshed. A Saturday night at one of the most exclusive clubs in West City would do that. When she had been younger she spent most of her weekends enjoying the night life, but lately it had been a rare thing. The last few years had been spent on adventure as she traveled to other worlds and faced down alien monsters. When she did show herself in public it caused quite a stir. As soon as she was spotted it would be sent out on the celebrity blog, and everyone who was anyone would flock to her location. She wasn't singer or an actress, she was something even more. She was an heiress. Blessed with more money than Midas and the looks of Aphrodite, she was everyone's best friend, even when she didn't know their names.

It was getting harder to fool herself into enjoying the party, but with every sip of expensive champagne, of which she bought every round, she would slip away. She drank until the lights blurred into a prism of fabulous colors, and every stranger who spoke to her was the most entertaining comedian she ever met. She danced until the room spun, and the music pounded in her ears even when there was a lull. And when two o'clock rolled around, and it was last call, she ignored everyone who begged her to go to breakfast at some all night dinner, because it was then she remembered, that although everyone else had a pumpkin waiting for them at the end of the evening, her coach would always be there. She waved goodbye to the crowd, thanking them for lifting her up out of her depression and reminding her that although she was lonely, she wasn't one of them. She was elite.

As always the paparazzi were waiting at the door, hoping for the million dollar shot of her make-up melting and her eyes bloodshot, or even better, her garments in hideous disarray exposing her breasts. Their cameras flashed and her bodyguards held them back. She melted into the shadows, only smiling when the newest guard shouted at her to stay close. Although it was wise for someone as rich as her to be protected she never thought it was necessary. She was so much more than just some dumb heiress with fake boobs. She was an adventuress! No one would be foolish enough to touch her.

She was still smiling when the sweet-smelling hand covered her mouth and a steel-framed arm encircled her waist. She shot a look at her guard who was saying something to a photographer. By the sharp snarl to his lips and the way the paparazzo's rounded eyes darted up to his, she knew it was nasty. She reached towards him, begging him to turn and see, but her newly manicured nails merely scrapped across the brick wall of the club as the stranger drew her further into the shadows. She tried to struggle, to somehow fight back, but she was small compared to him. So small that her father used to tease her by saying his little girl never quite grew up into a woman. It was in that moment she realized there was going to be no more growing up. No growing older. It wasn't her choice. Someone else was making it for her. But then again, death never really was a choice.

_Fixation_

Chapter One

Max Nguyen forced himself to watch as the detective broke the news to the Briefs that their only daughter would never be coming home. He stood stoically, his jaw squared, as the strained hope in Mrs. Brief's eyes shattered, and insurmountable sorrow crested her finely-aged features. She had been perched ramrod straight on the formal cream settee, but now she collapsed onto her husband, whose ragged voice could barely utter vacant words of comfort.

As Head of Security for the Briefs family, he felt personally responsible for their loss. He was the one to hire the men sent to watch over Bulma. He had drilled them again and again to watch her closely, reminding them of her proclivity for slipping away, naïve in her beliefs that no one would ever dream of hurting her. He fired her body guard of course, but it was hardly necessary. Max could see the guilt haunting the man in his bloodshot eyes.

Max turned to detective Wong, his long time friend in the West City Policy Department. In his profession it was imperative he have connections everywhere.

"What happened, Jon?" He kept his voice respectfully low, but there was no mistaking the command in his tone. Before coming to work for the Briefs he spent twenty years in Special Forces. He was used to men obeying him.

"You know I can't discuss the details of an ongoing case with you, Max."

Max stared hard at the man, his black eyes steady. Jon smoothed his rumbled gray suit with nervous energy. He glanced around for any eavesdroppers before motioning to Max to follow him out of the den into the marbled foyer. Max leaned against the gold gilt stairwell banister leading to the second floor as he waited for Jon to speak.

"We think it was Sincerely Yours."

Max was glad he was braced against the banister or he would have stumbled back in shock. He brushed his calloused hand through his short graying hair, giving himself time gather his thoughts before answering.

"The serial killer?" he asked carefully. Jon nodded in the affirmative, while yanking on his breakfast-stained tie to loosen it. He glanced around again, waiting impatiently for Max to say something. Anything.

His gut clenched, and for the first time in a long time, he thought he might hurl. During war he saw a lot of horrible things. Some of them he even done himself. But that was war, and although innocents got caught in the cross-fire, Max always tried to help who he could. But this man. This monster, Sincerely Yours, was truly a sicko. Bulma Briefs had been a good woman. She may have been snappish with an angry streak a mild wide, but she truly cared about the people around her. She didn't deserve what happened to her. No one did. Max couldn't even bear to think about what her last moments would have been like.

"But that would mean," Max began, but was too horrified to continue.

Jon swivel his head to look Max in the eye before speaking.

"Only her head was found." Max tightened his grip on the banister, his palms sweating.

"And a note?"

Jon's lips thinned and the hard-scored lines bracketing his mouth deepened. "The same as usual. Just that he dearly hoped her family could find peace now that her remains could be verified, and they knew for certain she was in a better place, signed Sincerely Yours."

Everyone who watched the news or read the paper knew of the serial killer dubbed by the media as Sincerely Yours because of the notes he left behind with the remains of his victims. He killed ten women in five years, strategically placing their heads beside busy roadsides beneath street signs so they could be found quickly. In their mouths was always a hand written note, expressing his sympathy for the family's loss and his hope that he could alleviate some of their suffering by leaving the victims head behind for identification. The woman's bodies were never recovered.

His hunting ground was wide-spread with his victims being up to eight hundred miles apart. The police believed he traveled for work, but with enough disposable time to meticulously stalk his victims. He selected a new woman every six months, showing no signs of escalation. He enjoyed his work, and worse, he was in control of it. He was neat and precise, and the police had no leads on who he could be.

Max felt tingling on the back of his neck and he looked up, his gaze colliding with the soul-black eyes of the Briefs house guest, Prince Vegeta. He was standing on the second story landing, watching them with impassive features. Max knew enough of the man's grisly past to be weary of him. As Head of Security he leaned all about him when Bulma had returned from her search for the Namekian Dragon Balls. Max didn't like the man. He didn't need to read a bio to know a man was evil. Twenty years in muddy, bloody ditches routing the enemy taught him that.

Vegeta's expression didn't change as he pushed away from the gold banister, turning his back on the two men, and disappearing into the depths of the house. The sight of Vegeta disturbed Max, but it also gave him a brilliant idea.

Suddenly filled with a new sense of purpose, Max grabbed his friends arm, gaining his full and undivided attention.

"Jon can your department keep this under wraps?"

"What?" Jon gasped, astounded at the request. This wasn't some rich Politian's sex scandal to be swept under the rug. This was murder.

"I know you won't be able to put a lid on the rumors, but don't confirm anything. I'm going to put out the word that Ms. Briefs is on an extended holiday."

"Max what the hell are you talking about?" Jon asked his friend, but Max wasn't looking at him anymore. He was watching Mrs. Briefs through the archway as she sobbed inconsolably into her husband's arms.

"We're going to bring her back." Max turned on his heel, leaving his friend behind to stare at his retreating back, his mouth agape.

"I have to speak to Son Goku," Max yelled over his shoulder, before racing out of the room.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I don't own or profit from Dragon Ball Z

_Fixation_

Chapter Two

Vegeta stood with his back braced against the white, wooden building, carelessly trampling the pink azaleas that had been lovingly planted around the base of the house. His arms were crossed as he scanned the loose gathering of people on the neatly manicured lawn. His dark eyes flitted over the Briefs without resting on them. The soul-deep loss on their faces only served as a reminder of a life he was trying to forget, and he had no desire to relive the memories their sorrow evoked.

The failure of a security guard was there, but why he was still employed by the Briefs, Vegeta had no idea. His men had lost track of their only asset, a tiny slip of a girl, who was as dangerous as a wet Chihuahua, and ten times less slippery. If Vegeta had failed so resoundingly in a job, he wouldn't be there today. He'd be feasting on the flesh of the damned in Hell, after Frieza fried his ass for failure. He shook his head, methodically cataloging the next group. The Fatso, the Pig, and the Pervert were there, milling about like well-fed cattle. They looked sheepishly out of place, as if they wanted to be any place rather than there trying to make small talk with the bereaved parents. The Weakling was there as well. His dark eyes were dull, and he moved as if walking through a gravity well. To everyone else it looked like sorrow, but Vegeta could smell guilt on him.

The Banshee, and the Half-Breed Brat were the most well dressed pair there. The Banshee was keeping a stern hand on the Brat, ordering him about like a battle-field general. Vegeta almost felt sorry for the kid. Even though he was a slave most of his life, he had been able to escape the heavy hand of his masters occasionally, but by the miserable look on the kid's face, he wasn't so lucky.

Of course, wherever they were, the Third Class could be found. He was arranging the golden Dragon Balls in the center of the lawn, his back unwisely presented to Vegeta. The Third Class had no sense of survival or any common sense. There wasn't a useful one in the bunch of them, except for the dead woman they were about to resurrect. At least she had served the purpose of maintaining his gravity room before she had gotten herself murdered. How the idiot girl managed to do that on such a tame world was beyond him. It just reinforced Vegeta's theory that there was a piece of shit lurking everywhere you went. It didn't matter if it was in the middle of space or on some back water planet. There was always an asshole waiting to fuck with you.

Vegeta had erroneously thought the old man would be up to the task of keeping his training gear in order, but like the others he had proven useless after his daughter's death. His work had stopped all together in fact. Now, all he did was sit in the garden, staring off into space while his lit cigarette burnt itself to ash between his limp fingers. The Ditz had lost some of her shine as well. She no longer cooked the extravagant meals Vegeta was used too. More often than not he had to scavenge his own food. Vegeta barely knew the woman they were all mourning. Other than having her around to make repairs he wasn't interested in her return. He had only arrived back to Earth a few short weeks before the revelation of the Androids would be arriving in three years. He had since spent his time training, determined to become stronger than the Third Class so he might regain some shred of honor. He hadn't been out to make friends, and as a result he barely acknowledged the woman outside of the fact of being aware of how attractive she was.

The woman wasn't why he was there. He wanted to see the Eternal Dragon. It was guaranteed to be an awesome sight. Besides it might be beneficial to know the summoning ritual for the dragon for the future. Since being murdered on Namek, Vegeta lost his natural fear of dying. He no longer wanted immortality. The thought of living for eternity with nothing to fight for was horrifying. Now that Frieza was dead he had no purpose in life, no meaning. His people were avenged, not by him, but at least by one of their race. Now Vegeta only had one goal. To defeat the Third Class in battle, and that was hardly something he would wish for. He would earn the privilege of crushing his rival on his own.

Vegeta was deeply disappointed at the lack of ritual. The Third Class merely grouped the golden balls together, stepping back as masses of dark clouds gathered overhead. Bright golden light burst out of the balls, forming the green serpentine body of Shenlong. It wasn't as large as the Namekian Dragon, but it was equally intimidating as its voice boomed loud enough to shake the windows of the house.

The Third Class was speaking, but Vegeta wasn't paying him much mind. His attention was solely for the dragon. Vegeta was assessing the pros and cons of having one wish available when a shrill, piercing scream cut through the air.

Vegeta's arms tightened across his chest, and he dipped his chin as he leaned further into the shadows. Fear rippled through the humans who were huddled on the lawn, blocking his view of the source of the horrendous sound, shivering together like a cat in the shadow of a huge hound. They had never heard such a sound, but Vegeta knew exactly what it was. He had heard enough screaming in his life to be able to tell the difference between the types. There were battle yells, shrieks of fright, and bellows of anger. But the most gut-wrenching, the most unforgettable, was the death howl.

Sometimes in death a person gasped or softly sighed, but Vegeta rarely heard such things. He was more intimately familiar with violent death throes. The continuous screaming that was tearing across the lawn was a product of a horrible death. It was a combination of fear, rage, despair and pain. It was all the wretched emotions a person could feel escalating into one terrifying outburst before death. It was something Vegeta had hoped never to hear again.

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Bunny Briefs sat on the bed next to her daughter, running her fingers through her child's greasy hair. Bulma was curled away, her thin arms wrapped around a thick feather down pillow. She had been resurrected almost a day ago, but it had taken her hours to calm down. She had screamed until her voice was raw, eventually degenerating into wounded, choking, sobs that burned through Bunny like acid. Bunny had never heard such awful sounds coming any human being, but hearing horrible gut-wrenching ones from her baby had nearly broken her.

Finally she was able to calm Bulma enough to get her changed out of the bloody remnants of her clothes and wash her face, but Bulma refused to be exposed long enough to take a shower, and she shrank away from anyone's' touch. Even now Bunny could see streaks of blood disappearing into Bulma's hairline, rusty brown stains against her translucent white skin. She was rusting away into nothing, like one of her forgotten robots in her lab. Her usually bright blue eyes were darkening, dimming and sinking back into her skull. It was frightening, and Bunny didn't know how to stop it from happening.

A pair of detectives tried to question Bulma about the man who took her, but she was uncommunicative, nearly catatonic in the way she stared at them sightlessly. Although it was well-known in the department that Bulma had been dead, the public all thought she had been an extended holiday. It was the consensus of the family and police to keep the situation quiet. The idea of resurrection was amazing, and if it became known as a possibility it would throw the public into chaos. The elite would demand it as their due and the poor would riot at the idea that the rich were receiving such an amazing, supernatural benefit.

Finally, Bunny couldn't stand the presence of the two well-meaning detectives any longer, snapping at them to leave in a shrill voice that was truly unlike her. She prided herself on her hostess skills and her charming personality. It had always been her highest priority that she made all guests in her home as comfortable as possible, but she couldn't stand to see her child in pain. The pain those barbarian detectives were causing her with their thoughtless, insensitive questions. Her baby needed her mother, not a hostess, and so she had thrown them out, tossing their tea cups out after them. Her husband had been appalled, but she hadn't cared. For once she was doing her duty as a mother, not a wife.

Bunny rubbed her thumb over a smooth blue curl, her usually full lips curled down in a deep frown. She couldn't see Bulma's face, just the tangled mass of her long hair.

"Would you like me to run you a bath, darling? I can wash your hair." Bunny asked gently, leaning closer to see her daughter's face. At her movement, Bulma hunched her shoulders, and shifted away. Bunny grimaced as a shaft of regret speared her through her heart.

As a child, whenever Bulma had been upset she would lay her head in Bunny's lap. She would never cry, Bulma had never been one of those children, but she had craved the touch and attention of her mother. Bulma wanted her mother's gentle fingers running through her hair, but Bunny had become a mother at a very young age. There was always something else that needed her attention. A party that needed planning or shopping that needed to be done. Bunny had a restless energy that bubbled inside her, keeping her going at all hours. She always ended up pushing Bulma away before her daughter was ready, and now that Bunny was older and more mature, she regretted her actions. Her daughter needed someone to cling too, someone to hold her, but Bunny had failed her when she was a child, and as a result when she needed comfort the most, she turned away from her only source.

Bunny swallowed hard at the raw burn of tears behind her eyes. She never felt more like a failure than she did at that moment. She had always loved her daughter. There was never any doubt of that. She just hadn't realized how valuable her time was. She had squandered it on useless, meaningless things, instead of being there when her child needed her.

"Are you hungry? I can make you grilled cheese. I know it's your favorite."

Bulma didn't answer, and Bunny was at a loss of what to do. She wasn't prepared for this. She didn't have the proper skills. Her area of expertise was more along the lines of napkin folding and menu design. She couldn't tell what her daughter needed from her, but she didn't know that Bulma must be hungry and she knew how to cook. Food was something she did very well.

"I'm going to make you a big tray of food, full of all your favorites. You just sit tight, baby. I'll take care of you. I promise." She smoothed her hand one last time over Bulma's skull, before sliding out of the bed and scurrying out of the room with a new sense of purpose and energy.

Bulma sat motionless on the bed for a long time after the door clicked shut. Sunlight was streaming in from the bank of French doors leading out to her wide stone balcony. The floor to ceiling doors and windows had always been her favorite feature in her room. She usually kept the doors open so she could feel the airy breeze as she moved about the room. The doors were closed now, the thin drapes drawn tight, but she still felt immensely exposed. The curtains were sheer enough to see through, and glass was so breakable. If someone wanted to they could just smash their way in. It wasn't safe. Not safe at all.

Bulma flipped over to face the other direction. Her far wall was composed entirely of walk in closets. Although they came to almost eight hundred square feet, she still had to clean them out once a year to make room for all her new purchases. Though her mother had ribbed her endlessly about her taste, Bulma had replaced the regular doors with sliding mirrors. She loved being able to see herself at every possible angle. She wanted to be able to make sure her ass looked good at the same time she was checking her hair. Bulma wasn't vain. She just liked things to be perfect. Always perfect.

The pale green blankets were heaped up on the bed, covering her up to her chin. She could see her ashen reflection of the mirrors. Her eyes looked dark and sunken, her lips colorless. Her mother had washed her face with a warm cloth, but there were remnants of her water-proof mascara under her eyes. She looked terrible. So terrible that it prompted her to get out of bed and slowly make her way to the vanity. The dark purple sweats she was wearing sagged off her butt, and she had to fold them at the waist to keep them on. Her rumbled white t-shirt faded her pale skin even more, making her look like walking death.

She slumped in front of the mirror, staring grimly at herself. Her hair was darkened with sweat and hung down her back in smooth lanky clumps. He liked her hair. He told her it was her blue hair that captured his attention. She shivered at the images flashing across her mind. The dark room. The wooden table. The leather straps.

She couldn't remember his face, but she remembered his hands. Long and slender. So graceful as he slid his fingers through her hair. He had beautiful hands, except for the thin line of gray dirt beneath his neatly clipped nails. She had spent an inordinate amount of time wondering what sort of dirt he could be mucking around in that was gray.

The detectives asked her again and again about her time with him. She was with him for weeks they said. Much longer than anyone else, but she couldn't remember the details, just his hands. His soft graceful hands.

Her eyes dropped to focus on her neck. As soon as she was resurrected, her mother had taken her to the master bathroom to clean her up. The gorgeous rose and mauve room's most elaborate feature was the full length mirror trimmed in gold filigree. It was beautiful as it was devious. The mirror revealed everything, even that which you didn't want to see.

When resurrected the body is returned to its uninjured perfect state, even old scars disappeared, but the old, dried blood was left behind. And she had been covered in it. All over her face and body, dried into her hair. She was still coated in it. It was hidden beneath her clothes, and the dark shine of her hair. Bunny had scrubbed her relentlessly, begging her to shower, but Bulma couldn't bear to be exposed for any length of time.

It had taken a long time to calm Bulma down. Not because of her memories or residual terror. Bulma wasn't afraid of what had happened, because she couldn't remember. She was afraid, because no matter how much her mother scrubbed the blood still kept coming.

Silently she stared at her reflection in the vanity, watching as a thin line of blood seeped from her skin, ringing her pale neck. A single crimson droplet welled up and slid down the column of her throat.

It had taken her almost and hour to realize she was the only one who could see the blood.

She remembered his pale hands holding the long knife, how the blade glinted in the light. Being engulfed in darkness, drowning in it. His apologetic voice telling her how wonderful their time together had been, but how he had met someone else. How he didn't want to hurt her, but it just wasn't going to work out. How much he loved her hair. His hands, the knife, the pain.

Bulma picked up a heavy jar of face cream and hurled it into the mirror. Her reflection shattered into a thousand fragments, every single one of them covered in blood. She pulled open the bottom drawer of the vanity with rough, jerky movements. She riffled around, finally withdrawing a pair of sliver barber scissors. Her mouth set in a grim line; she grabbed a length of hair and sheared it off close to her skull, cutting it all off so it was boy short.

She bolted up from the vanity, fear and anger making her erratic as she raced into the bathroom. She dropped to her knees in front of the sink, opening the cabinet doors. She dug through the lotions and bubble bath, tossing bottles behind her as she searched for the lightweight box long forgotten in the back.

In high school, she and a girlfriend had gotten the brilliant idea of dying their hair. Bulma had chickened out, knowing her hair was a beautiful, exotic shade and she didn't want to hide it, but now all she wanted was to hide.

She pulled on the cheap plastic gloves and squirted the black cream into her palm. She didn't care about the proper directions, neither was she worried about drips. She quickly rubbed the dye into her hair, before pulling on the plastic cap.

Her hair dealt with, and still in the grips of panic, she raced from her room. She had her own suite, complete with kitchen, living area, and a guest room with bath, since she was a girl. She passed through the sunken living area to exit the suite. Once outside the safety of her rooms her dread intensified. She hadn't realized how inefficient the locks were in her rooms. They were nothing more than cheap interior door locks. They wouldn't keep out a stiff breeze, much less an intruder. As she moved through the house she noted the lack of cameras and latches on the windows. Capsule Corporation was supposed to be a protected fortress, not open to the public as it so clearly advertised with its shoddy security. Lack of protection was how he got her. Her security hadn't been watching her. They turned their back for a second and he swooped in, stealing her before she could gather the breath to scream. He could be out there now, watching, waiting.

She jerked open the backdoor and her heart seized in her chest. She couldn't seem to catch her breath as she stared out across open lawn that butted up against a thick corpse of woods, so thick that anyone could be hiding there. Hiding and watching. Watching her. She swiped her trembling fingers across her brow, staining them with sweat and dark dye.

Taking a shaky breath, she forced herself to leave the shelter of the doorway. Walking fast, like a child in the dark trying to reach the light switch before the monster pulled them under the bed; she made her way to the storage shed. Single-mindedly she riffled though the tools and old broken pieces of furniture until she finally found several gallons of old paint. She tried gathering them up, but there were too many. She knew she wouldn't be able to force herself to come back, so she looped the thin wire handles over her forearms. They bit into her skin, bruising her all the way to the bone, but she refused to leave them behind.

Terrified now, she sped back into the house. Her arms were dragged down by the heavy cans she was carrying, and shoulders burned at the sockets. As she trudged up the stairs she could barely draw in the breath she needed, but she was too afraid to stop. He could be right behind her. Right there at the foot of the stairs. Reaching for her with his sweet smelling rag. Breathing down her neck. With a burst of energy she loped up the last few steps, leaning heavily against the banister. She raced to her room, locking herself in. She dumped the heavy cans onto the floor at her feet, before darting into the kitchen to grab a ladder-back chair. She braced it under the door handle, kicking it in tight. Bulma pressed her ear against the thin wood, listening for any sign that he was following her. For the longest time all she could hear was her labored breathing and her heartbeat behind her ears.

She swallowed a couple of times, trying to drum up enough spit to sooth her raw throat. Satisfied that he couldn't get her, she turned back to the paint cans. In her panic she had forgotten mixing sticks and paint brushes, but Bulma was so pumped full of adrenaline she didn't care. She shook the cans hard, using a butter knife to pry the lids off. The first can was black and nearly full, making Bulma smile at the perfection. Picking up the can she splashed the inky paint on her closet doors, uncaring that it splattered the cream carpet.

She used her bare hand to spread it around, leaving finger streaks in the paint. There was so much surface space it took purple and yellow paint to cover all the mirrored doors. The largest of the mirrors dealt with, she searched through the rest of her rooms, either taking down hanging mirrors or painting them in. She hadn't realized how many she had. She never put up art, only mirrors. Her beauty had always been art enough for any room.

Scoffing to herself, she went into the master bathroom last. She took one last look at herself, her short wet black hair covered in a clear cap, sunken eyes and the every present ring of blood. Triumphantly she splashed red paint on the mirror, obscuring herself entirely. She spread the paint with her hand, streaking black into the red, leaving a single palm print in the middle.

Finally she was safe. At least for the moment. Now that she was completely obscured she could clean off the remaining traces of him from her skin. She turned on the shower, taking off her plastic cap, and throwing it into the small garbage pail beside the sink. Still dressed, she stepped under the hot spray. The water soaked her to the skin, making her sweats so heavy they nearly sagged off her hips. She held them on with one hand as she washed her skin under her clothes, too afraid to undress even to clean herself.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I don't own or profit from DBZ.

Fixation

Chapter Three

Bulma tucked herself up on the kitchen counter in front of the small window over the sink. It was an uncomfortable position. Her back was braced against the sharp edge of the upper cupboard, her heels resting on the sink rim, and the facet was jammed painfully into her thigh. From this position she could twitch the white, lace curtain aside and peer out into the backyard. In the farthest right corner she could see the edge of Vegeta's gravity chamber. She would have a perfect unobstructed view from her balcony, and in the past she had watched Vegeta many times from that perch, but now she couldn't seem to force herself to walk out into such a huge, unprotected space. She had taken most of the blankets in her suite, and tacked them up over the French doors. Even then, the thin layer of cloth did nothing to make her feel more secure, so she had taken to sleeping in the guest room. That was, of course, when she slept.

She would have ordered the doors to be replaced with steel ones like she had at the front entrance, but even before the idea was fully formed, a plot was hatching in the back of her brain. She knew she was going to need those beautiful, dangerous French doors as a lure.

She watched carefully as Vegeta made his way into her line of sight to begin his cooling down exercises as was his habit at the end of the day. She noticed he did a lot of his work outside, training only in the gravity room when he had too. As he moved into his first kata she chewed on the side of her thumb nail. In the time _Before_, she would have watched the fluid movement of his muscles with sexual interest, but now all she could think about was the sheer amount of strength reflected in the perfection of his body, his hyper awareness of his environment. He was constantly aware, constantly watching. Even now he knew she was watching. She could tell by the way his shoulders stiffened for a moment, before he pointedly looked away from the house. He was the perfect guard. The perfect protector.

She hopped down from the counter, knocking an old half-full pizza box to the ground. She ignored it as she rooted around the messy table for a pen. Unable to find any paper, she ripped off a piece of a grease-stained fast food bag, and hurriedly scribbled a message. She slipped the paper beneath the triple locked door to her suite, knowing her mother would give it to her father.

Done, she went back to searching her closet for any newly created spaces meant to be secret from her. There was entirely too much stuff in the huge space. Too many places for someone to hide. The Dolce and Gabbana collections would have to go and the space would need to be walled up. Less space, meant less room for _him _to hide.

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Vegeta pounded impatiently on the reinforced steel door. His gravity room had mysteriously stopped working, and all the scurrying piss-ants he could get his hands on were telling him the only person who could fix it was the woman. She had been resurrected some weeks ago, but he hadn't seen hide nor hair of her. He'd assumed her parents shipped her off to a medical facility. What little he saw of her on the day she had been resurrected hadn't looked good. There had been enough blood to let him know her heart was still pumping when the sick fuck starting slicing into her. She didn't strike him as the type would be able to handle that sort of distress. She was a pampered, pretty princess, not a mentally and physically fortified warrior.

Multiple locks rattled on the other side of the door, before finally cracking open. He didn't bother waiting, slapping his hand hard enough against the metal surface to slam it wide open. He watched with dark amusement as bits of gold chain sailed through the air. He heard a muffled shriek, and he tracked a slight figure darting for cover behind the chocolate- colored, leather couch deeper in the room. He stepped inside, glancing around for threats. His nose wrinkled at the stench of rotten food that immediately assailed him. In the sink there was a pile of dishes at least a week old, and the counters were cluttered with wrappers and the remnants of decaying meals. He glanced away with disgust, noticing with relief that the den area was relatively clean, but he noticed odds works of art on the walls. They looked like badly done finger paintings with mismatching colors. Clearly seeing there was no threat, he turned his attention back towards the couch.

The woman was cowering behind it, peeking at him from over the back. He was taken aback a moment as he looked at her. Her normally long blue hair was dyed black and cut into short, glossy curls. The only reason he knew it was the woman was because her bright blue eyes were even brighter against her pale skin and black hair. They practically shone like jewels in the dim lighting. She had dark rings under her eyes, and her cheeks were hollow from lack of food, which made him reevaluate the kitchen. It was quiet possible the mess was older than a week.

Nervously, she stood up to face him, unconsciously chewing on her fingernail. All of her nails were torn down to the quick and some of them were even bleeding. He raised one dark brow as he assessed her. This woman was not the same one from Namek. This woman was broken. And he doubted there would be any fixing her. Fortunately, fixing things wasn't his job. It was hers.

"The gravity room is broken. Repair it," he barked, thrusting his thumb over his shoulder towards the door. He took a bit of malicious pleasure from the sight of her cringing away from him.

"Can't," she mumbled from behind her hand.

Vegeta's dark eyes narrowed, and he took an intimidating step forward. "What did you say to me, female?"

She took a step back, nearly falling into the sunken living area as she failed to gage the step down. She righted herself, dropping her hand so she could rub her shaking palm over her thigh. She glanced away from him, checking over her shoulder as if someone else was in the room with them. He was immediately drawn to the thin, pale column of her neck. He could see her pulse thrumming rapidly beneath her ear. Around her hairline, he could see light streaks of black staining the back of her neck and around her temple.

"Won't," she replied, turning back towards him.

Vegeta was momentarily brought up short by her defiance. By her very mannerism she was nothing more than a scared little mouse, and he knew from experience he was very much a hungry wolf. She should be jumping to do as he said, but her eyes told another story. He remembered she was clever, and even though it was clear she was mentally damaged, it seemed she could still plot.

"What's stopping me from snapping your neck right now?" he growled, stalking closer to her. She held her ground, her entire body quivering. She dropped her eyes, gaining courage by looking at anything, but him. She started on another nail, biting it until it bled.

"Gravity room."

His frustrated growl echoed through the room, and he watched in satisfaction as she hunkered down slightly at the sound. Her noncommittal, short replies were disconcerting. He hadn't the displeasure of being in her company for long, but when he had, the woman hadn't shut up. Now, she barely could spit out enough words to participate in a conversation.

"What do you want, little female?" It occurred to him now, that his gravity room being busted was no coincidence. She had wanted to see him for a reason, so she had sent some poor shit minion out to do her bidding. God help whoever it was when he found them.

"A beneficial exchange of services." She rubbed her abused fingers across her mouth hard enough to redden the pale skin around her lips. She backed away until her legs were braced on the arm of a thickly padded chair. She cast a disgruntled glance at her fingers, before shoving her hands into the front pockets of her very loose blue jeans. The baggy, black T-shirt she wore flowed down over her waist, obscuring arms, which made him a little nervous. He liked being able to see where people's hands were at all times.

He crossed his arms, inhaling deeply so his chest looked broader, more threatening. He glared down at her, being sure to stay at the top of the ledge for even greater height.

"What sort of services."

"Well, they are actually more beneficial to me than they are too you." She paused, staring past him and into nothing. He didn't reply, just watched as her eyes unfocused for a moment before snapping back to reality. She really was cracked in the head.

"I was thinking it would be more comfortable for you to stay here. The chamber beneath the gravity room is so stuffy. You can have my room. It has a great big balcony facing the gravity room, so all you have to do is fly down to train in the morning," she explained in a rush, and he watched with a sick sort of fascination as her pale cheeks flushed pink.

When he first arrived at Capsule Corporation he had searched every inch of the property, including her room. It was habit to make sure his environment was secured and he knew every secret passage, entrance, and exit. Her room had appealed to him. For an entire lifetime he'd been in enclosed spaces. In ships with narrow corridors and ten by ten cells for quarters, pods without enough room for a full grown man or even for someone of his stature. Space, real outdoors, fresh air, without walls to keep him caged, that's what he craved. That was what he loved the most about his missions. The ability to take a deep breath and smell anything but recycled air. Even trash was preferable to the highly oxygenated antiseptic air of ships. The entire east wall of her room was nothing, but open doors overlooking the yard where he trained. It was shelter without being a cage. It had all the fresh air he would ever need, not like the small cell under the gravity room where he slept, breathing recycled air.

He stared at her long enough to make her fidget. It was a technique he had perfected long ago to make people nervous, especially when he was at a loss for words. The woman clearly had lost her mind for making such a ludicrous offer. Even if he did covet her sleeping space, he wasn't about to become anyone's roomie.

"What possible reason would I have for wanting to stay in here with you?" His voice was thick with disgust, rolling off his tongue spiteful bursts.

"Well for one the bed is much more comfortable, and I can guarantee huge, well prepared meals for you. Secondly, if you move out of the chamber beneath the gravity room, then I can move my office in there, so I can monitor and repair your equipment as needed."

Vegeta watched her with a practiced eye. As she spoke, her blue eyes darted around the room, looking for a sudden attack from anywhere. Her shirt was bunching and loosening around her waist, and he knew he was clenching and releasing her fists rhythmically in her pockets. The dark rings beneath her eyes were from lack of sleep, and the chalky paleness of her skin spoke of bad health. The woman was sleep and food deprived. She was frightened, haunted by the imaginings of her own mind.

It suddenly made sense now. She wanted him to sleep in the room that had the most outside access. She wanted to be beneath him while he trained above her. She wanted him between her and any possible danger. She wanted him to protect her. He almost laughed out loud at her ridiculousness. Not only was it the most asinine idea ever, they were talking about _him_. Satan's balls, he was a goddamn killer!

"Go find some dick-weasel to pay for protection. I'm no bodyguard. I'm a prince," he hissed at her. He turned on his heel, ready to storm out when she popped up at his side. She wrapped both her tiny hands around his forearm, pulling on him as if she had any hope of restraining him. He glared down at her, his upper lip curling back to flash his sharp ivory teeth.

"I don't need a bodyguard. I just need…..you to be you." She looked lost for a moment, like a dumb dog that lost its master. She glanced around, searching for something unseen, and Vegeta realized she was trying to find the right words. Something close to pity scratched on the hard shield around his heart, but it was easy for him to shake it off. He glared at her through narrowed eyes, his lips thinning as he prepared to crush her.

"You are the strongest, meanest person in the world, Vegeta. You have to help me," she implored in a tiny voice before he could speak. She finally looked straight at him, and he realized that up until now she had kept her eyes averted. The impact of her gaze was shocking. With her dark hair, her blue eyes looked even larger than normal, and he wondered if it was possible to drown in something so deep.

To anyone else her words would have been a mixed complement, but to him it was the truth. He was the strongest, meanest bastard on Earth. Not even Kakarott could say differently.

"Get that dumbass boyfriend of yours. I'm sure he would jump at the chance to sleep in your bed." He jerked his arm away, intending to leave, but she leapt in front of him, arms extending until her palms rested on his chest.

"No. He's strong, but he's just a human." He could feel her fingertips trembling through his thin cotton shirt. The distance she kept between them with her extended arms had less to do with stopping him from leaving, and more to do with keeping him away. Even though she was asking for help, she was still afraid of him. She was afraid of everything, including her own shadow.

"So what? I'm sure he's plenty strong enough to protect you from whatever your silly little mind is cooking up." He knocked her hands away, disliking the feel of her fear upon his skin.

"It's possible that Yamacha is strong enough, but I can't take the chance that he isn't. _He_ was a human." Her hand darted up to encircle her neck, rubbing at a wound Vegeta couldn't see. "Who knows how strong he is. He could be a fighter too. Once he realizes I'm alive, he'll come for me. He's probably already here." Her eyes darted around, looking for a predator in the shadows. What she failed to see was the one right in front of her.

Vegeta could only assume that, 'he' was the man who terrorized and slaughtered her. She was living in the memory of what he had done to her, and until she overcame her fear, she would be forever imprisoned.

"Not my problem." Vegeta shook her off, moving around her, and heading for the door. This time she didn't try to stop him. He was passing through the portal, when she lobbed her last card at him.

"No one knows how to fix the Gravity Room, but me." She issued her threat with quiet aplomb that would have almost made him proud, if it wasn't directed towards him. Slowly he turned around, his dark eyes veiled by his thick lashes. He scanned up her body, taking in her long legs, and torso hidden behind her shapeless clothing. Her hands were clutched in front of her, like a disciple seeking asylum from a god. She dropped her eyes and soft glossy curls fell across her forehead. "I can't leave this room," she whispered to him. "Unless you are beside me."

A tiny, nothing, slip of a girl, and she had him by the balls. He could threaten her, maybe even beat her, but he doubted it would do him any good. She was already broken. There was nothing else that could be done to her that would persuade her to change her mind. He felt something clench in the space right above his belly, just beneath his rib cage. It was a weird, awkward feeling, and he didn't know what it meant. He only knew it worsened as she stared at her pathetic countenance.

He glanced around the room again, sneering at what he saw. "I will not live in filth, woman. Clean it before I return," he snarled before slamming the door shut, cursing in an alien tongue the entire way down the hall.


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: I don't own or profit from DBZ.

Fixation

Chapter Four

Bulma blinked at the closed door. Finally, her heartbeat returned to normal and the sense of panic receded. A small cloud of anger whiffed through her. She used to be a very brave woman. Brave, beautiful and brainy. But during her encounter with Vegeta she had been terrified. Of him a little, but mostly of his response. He was frightening and intimidating, but there was a part of her that felt safe under his shadow. She hadn't lied to him. He was the meanest, most powerful man on Earth. If anyone could protect her it would be him, but it didn't mean he would. She wouldn't put it past Vegeta to watch as she was being dragged away by the bastard who destroyed her. What she was counting on was Vegeta's territorial instincts. That's why she wanted him to live in the same rooms as her. She wanted him to consider the suite to be his, and thereby any intruder, no matter their intent, would be fried on the spot for daring to disturb him.

She glanced around the room, noticing for the first time in weeks how messy it was. The filth in the kitchen alone was disgusting. She rubbed a shaking hand across her lips. How had that happened? How was it possible for her to lose touch with reality? Her jaw set, she fetched a box of trash bags. She scraped large piles of paper and boxes off the counters into one of the bags, bundling it up. She stalked up to the front door, before stopping cold. Sweat prickled her skull, and something awful skittered down her spine as she stared at the silver door handle. She knew he was just outside, waiting for her to unlock the door so he could spring on her, sinking his teeth into the soft parts of her body to taste her again, before dragging her off.

The door handle rattled. Her breathing raced. The locks popped off. Her skin blistered with fear. She dropped the bag, pressing the heels of her palms against her eyes and recited the Periodic Table. After the third recitation, pulled her hands away to look at the door. The knob was still and the locks were intact. Inhaling deeply, she placed the bag gently against the wall near the door, before turning back towards the kitchen. By the time she was done she had a small mountain of white garbage bags piled by the entrance way. She cleaned the rest of the suite, even the bathroom in Vegeta's room, though she had to slide along the far wall, her eyes glued to the French doors watching for any intruders as she made her way there.

Darkness crept in as she waited for Vegeta to return. She turned on every light could to illuminate the all the corners. Night bled into early morning, and infomercials dominated the cable channels. Bulma's nails were bleeding, and she could taste it on her tongue. Suddenly, a horrible pounding ricochet through the room, and Bulma screamed in fright. She flipped around on the couch to peer at the door that was shaking with the force of the blows.

"Open up, you miserable female."

Relief flooded through her, and she raced up to the door, flinging the locks open. She was blown back as Vegeta entered. He didn't bother to look at her, just hiked his blue duffle over his shoulder and stomped inside.

Pausing a few steps into the room, he sniffed disdainfully. Bulma was closing the door, when he turned around.

"What the fuck is this shit?"

Bulma glanced over her shoulder at him. He was staring at the pile of garbage on the wall. Her face flamed in embarrassment.

"I—ahh—couldn't."

He frowned at her, his eyes narrowed.

"You are the most useless female on the planet."

Bulma dropped her eyes. She wanted to argue, but couldn't find a basis for it. After all, he was right.

"Open the door."

She hesitated at his command, glancing at him with wide blue eyes.

"Now," he barked. She jumped, unlatching the door and opening it.

He picked up armful of bags like they were paper mache and flung them out into the hall. They hit the far wall, some of them bursting open and showering the floor with rotten food.

"Vegeta."

"Let someone else clean it up. All I fucking care about is the smell in here. It smells like ass."

Bulma didn't make a sound. As the hours ticked on she worried that he would renig on their deal, and wouldn't show. As relieved as she was that he came, she wasn't sad to see his back as he finished up and marched to his new room. He was still frightening.

Vegeta couldn't believe the mess he was in. Held hostage by a bat-brained female who was so crazy she couldn't leave her own room. He wouldn't have agreed to this crazy deal if it wasn't for the gravity room. It was the same one that Kakarott used on the way to Namk to become stronger. He eventually became the Legendary. Training under intense gravity had to be the answer to Vegeta's own ascension. He couldn't live the rest of his pathetic, miserable life with the knowledge that a third class was better than him. It was just one disgrace too many in a long line. The woman would just have to be yet another hurtle that he had to overcome. He could play her game. After all, it was all about survival.

He whipped open the top drawer of the dainty bureau and all his angry restless energy came to an abrupt, silent pause. Very slowly he picked up a scrap of red silk trimmed in black lace. It was incredibly soft and smooth as he gently rubbed it between his fingers. Unconsciously, he inhaled; flooding is senses with a tantalizing flowery scent.

His eyes drifted closed. Flashes of blue and white decorated with brilliant accents of red danced across the backs of his lids. His eyes snapped open and anger settled deeply in the lines of his face. He pulled the entire drawer from the bureau and stomped into the living area. Bulma was perched in the center of the couch, her knees drawn tightly to her chest. Her clothing was baggy and dark except for a mismatched pair of fuzzy socks. One yellow, the other pink.

She was chewing her thumbnail while watching a loud, obnoxious man spewing meaningless words while holding a bucket with Forever Gone stenciled across the front. When she looked up at him expectantly he could see where a ragged edge of her nail had cut into her chapped lower lip. Without a word he upended the drawer over her head and watched as a rainbow of satin underwear rained down around her. Her mouth popped open in genuine surprise, but she didn't say anything as he slammed his way back into her bedroom.

Bulma looked down at the mess in her lap. Lingerie had been her secret indulgence. Even when she had no intention of taking her clothes off she had loved wearing silky sexy panties. It had almost made her feel powerful. Her little secret in the boardroom.

_He_ had let her know that it wasn't so secret. _He_ had known about her little indulgence and he had been turned on by it.

Sick to her stomach and so furious it nearly choked her, Bulma gathered up her panties and bras by the handfuls and ran into the kitchen. She threw them into the sink, using the handle of the dish brush to shove them into the disposal. She flipped the switch, laughing wildly as it roared to life and ripped the delicate fabrics apart. The disposal chugged, but she didn't care, she just kept plunging more underwear down the hole.

She heard a sound behind her. She whipped around frantically scrubbing away her tears so she could see her attacker. Vegeta stood by the counter that separated the den from the kitchen. Silently, he watched her, his eyes sliding coldly down her body. The disgust she saw in his eyes sobered her more effectively than a cold shower.

Wordless, he turned his back on her and walked away. Bulma's shoulders slumped as she switched off the disposal. Silently, without tears or laughter she cleaned up the mess she had created.


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: I don't own or profit from Dragon Ball Z.

Fixation

Chapter Five

Vegeta was awake as the first edges of sunlight peaked over the horizon. He hadn't slept the entire evening. His surroundings were unfamiliar, and the situation he found himself in made him uneasy. He could hear the bat-shit crazy woman moving around in the common area, eating something that smelled salty. He didn't like the tapped feeling it evoked within him. With the exception of his new room, the suite was locked up tighter than a level five incarceration facility. The sensation was made worse by her presence outside his door. He was unable to explore the rest of the flat without having to be subjected to her mewling presence. So while he stayed in his room, penned by his disgust, she watched loudmouth infomercials until there was nothing but static. As the night wore away into dawn, the nervous rustling of her clothing faded, so he assumed she was drooling on herself on the couch.

With a pained grunt, he sat up on the edge of the bed, stretching the stiffness out of his back, and rubbing a palm down his face. He could feel grit in the corners of his eyes, and weariness weighed on his shoulders. There had been mornings like this while serving Frieza. Days he knew were going to be long and hard, and full of bottom of the barrel, sewer scrapings called life. He crossed to the bathroom, switching on the light. He turned to look in the mirror, coming to a standstill as he faced a red square with a small handprint in the center. It was then, with soul-sinking certainty he realized that all the bizarre art he saw around the suite, including the full length of the wall in his new room were in fact painted in mirrors. Mirrors, undoubtedly defaced by the woman in an effort to make herself feel more secure. He knew she was well into crazy territory when he spoke with her yesterday, but now it was clear that she was flailing in the deep end.

He pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers, trying to abate the skull-pounding headache he felt coming on. Vegeta wasn't unused to crazy people. Being a part of Frieza's army left its mark. He was sure that he wouldn't score gold stars on a psychological health test. He had seen enough shit in his life to make normal people fall into a catatonic state of shock. He knew more than his fair share of psychopaths, schizophrenics, and paranoids, as well as the harmless, compulsive, nail-biter types. The worst had been the head-bangers. Pitiful, pathetic, fools who squatted in corners, slamming their heads on walls until they keeled over or someone took pity, and picked them off. The compulsives were at the end of the food chain. They usually got bitten off and chewed up relatively quick. He never had to deal with them for long, which was for the best. Patience, Nappa used to say, was never one of the Prince's attributes. The way he figured it, the woman was definitely straggling behind the herd, and instead of putting her down like the sick animal she was, he had been handpicked to _handle_ her.

It would have been easier her trauma had killed off her conscience. The men used to call it the Big D. That was it. The only death that mattered. After the Big D any death of your physical body was just inevitability. The Big D was the moment you hit your breaking point, and you either lost your shit or you joined up on the dark side. Psychopaths. Frieza's army was full of them. Vegeta was sure there was a test out there that would classify him under the same heading. He couldn't really argue with that either. He had murdered - caused mayhem - instilled fear in the hearts of the weak. Even through all that, there was always one thing that set him apart from the others. Torture. He never understood it. Most of the men in Frieza's army practiced the art with gusto. Maybe it had something to do with shit rolling down hill. They couldn't get out of their own little hells, so they inflicted it on others. He didn't know. He didn't care to know. He used his dangerous reputation to his advantage. He saw nothing wrong in tearing off the limb of an enemy, and taking a bite, if it feared the rest of the population submission. But torture. What the fuck is that shit about?

Now he had to deal with this woman. Clearly she was compulsive, with a great big dose of paranoia dumped in. Not so much dangerous as annoying. He envisioned his near future to be filled with clinging, crying and maybe some incoherent muttering. None of which he had a burning desire to live with. It all had to go, starting with the nail-biting. What a disgusting, fucking habit.

Sighing, he dropped his shorts on the ground, and started the shower. Today, he knew, was going to be long, and he was certain there wasn't going to be as much training going on as he liked. Once dried off, and dressed, he steeled himself for what was to come next. Silently, he padded out into the common area, confirming what he already thought to be true. The woman had fallen asleep on the couch, still dressed in fear-stink clothes, the remote clutched in her boney hand.

With a remorselessness he was proud of, he gripped the couch with one hand, and tilted it forward, dumping the limp woman on the ground. As expected she sprung up screaming. Unexpectedly, she flung the remote at his head, damn near hitting him. He was relieved at her show of fire. At least she still had some fight in her. It took her a near full thirty seconds to realize she wasn't under attack. Her screech cracked to a halt, as she stared at him with what Vegeta thought should be illegally big eyes.

"Fix my Gravity Room." Vegeta paused for effect. "Now!"

She jumped, stuffing her fingers in her mouth to begin her regimen of nail biting. Vegeta's eyes narrowed.

"I um. Well you see. Umm."

Vegeta took one step towards her, and she jumped back, her hand leaving her mouth.

"I really want to do that for you."

Vegeta crossed his arms, and stared her down.

"It's just. You know. The Gravity Room is so far away." She teetered out towards the end, looking around the room in her absentee way that drove Vegeta nuts. Seeing the problem, he strove to rectify it.

He crossed to her in two steps, hauled her pathetic weight up onto his shoulder, and return to his room. He had left the balcony doors open, relishing the cool breeze from outside. He leapt up, not even bothering to fly, and cleared the rail, landing three stories below with ease. Bulma was screaming. Her tiny fists pounding into his back with ineffectual fury. He dumped her in the center of the Gravity Room, watching her with dark, emotionless eyes as she crumpled in front of him, too afraid to do anything, but bawl.

Figuring, she needed more than her bare hands to repair his Gravity Room, he left her on the floor, and pulled up the vidscreen. One of her lab geeks answered his call, looking more afraid than the woman, especially since he had a view of her wailing in the background.

"Bring her tools. As well as everything needed for a workstation. She will be working in the domicile accommodations beneath the Gravity Room for now on."

The geek swallowed, but didn't move. Vegeta flashed blue fire. "Don't make me wait, human." He ended the call, turning back to the woman, who had calmed her wailing, but had now curled into a fetal position on the floor looking nearly catatonic.

Vegeta grit his teeth, and hunkered down in front of her. He didn't have time for her inability to function right now. He had shit that needed to be done. He brought her to a sitting position, holding her there with a steel grip around her stick-thin arm.

"I have held up my end of this shit-fuck bargain, woman. Now you will do your part. If you don't, I will put you out of your misery, and when Kakarott comes nosing around, I'll tell him that you asked me too." He shook her for good measure, relieved when her deadened eyes made contact with his.

"Vegeta?"

"Quit wasting my time. I've ordered your piss-ants to bring your tools. Once they arrive you will fix my training facility."

Bulma sat up under her own power, but when he began to withdraw his hand, she grabbed onto it desperately.

"You will stay with me?"

He shook her off, disgusted.

"Where the fuck would I go? You have my Gravity Room hostage."

Bulma nodded, wiping her face. Vegeta moved away from her, and she almost panicked again, but she brought herself under control. She reminded herself that she was exactly where she wanted to be - within ten feet of Vegeta. The Gravity Room was a hundred times safer than her rooms. Vegeta might not fight off an intruder there, but she was certain he would fry anyone who dared to enter his precious Gravity Room.

She stood up on shaky legs, trying her best to regain some sense of composure. She allowed the knowledge of Vegeta's protection, however scornfully given, to wash over her. For the first time in weeks she felt safe. Well and truly protected. There was a lightness in her chest that was astounding, and for once she could finally breathe. She smiled. It felt weird. The muscles in her face stretched, and it made her feel a little maniacal, but at the same time it was the best feeling in the world.

There was a dong as someone signaled for entry. She hurried over to Vegeta, where he stood by the control panel. He depressed the entry button, and a squadron of geeks entered, each carrying a necessary piece of equipment to outfit her new workspace beneath the Gravity Room. She hid behind Vegeta, resisting the very intense urge to grip his hand in reassurance. Her fear was back, pounding beneath her skin and squeezing her heart. She searched the faces of every man who entered. Trying to remember if she knew them from the lab. What if he tried to get at her through her work? What if he infiltrated her lab as a new employee? He could be in the room with her right now. Looking at her. Watching her. Fantasizing about what he was going to do to her next.

Sweat poured off her brow, and she began to hyperventilate. She pressed back into the control panel until she could feel bruises on the backs of her thighs. Vegeta tossed her a contemptuous look, and she felt even weaker. She slid down to the floor, keeping her back pressed against the cold, steel panel, her knees to her chest for security.

The parade of men stopped, but she could hear them down in Vegeta's old quarters. Moving stuff around. Setting up her computer. Hiding small cameras to watch her. He was down there. She knew it. He was going to spy on her. Maybe he wouldn't even come back up. Maybe he would hid down there, and wait until she thought everyone was gone. He would leap on her while Vegeta was training, and none the wiser. A sharp pain ran from her index finger up her arm, and she changed hands, biting the quick along her already ravaged nail.

Trapped in the vortex of her thoughts, she nearly leaped out of her skin, when Vegeta kicked her in the hip, hard enough to knock her over. She shot him a startled look, feeling completely useless as he sneered at her. He dropped a bundle of precision tools in her lap, jerking his chin towards the console. She swallowed hard. Her only answer to his request was to slowly get off the floor, and make her way to the unit that needed repair. Once she popped open the panel, and looked at the long wires of intricate circuitry and data chips, all thoughts of her tormentor were regulated to the back of her mind. This was something she knew how to do. She could fix things. Make things. She was the smartest woman on her planet. Suddenly the fear vibrating through her body stilled, and her hands ceased to shake. She took up her tiny screwdriver, and began to work.


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: I don't own or profit from Dragon Ball Z.

Fixation

Chapter Six

Vegeta stood on the darkened balcony, his sweaty palms braced on the cold, marble balustrade. He hoped the stone would cool the heat of his anger, but with every passing moment the churning, acidic bile rose in his throat. The glass doors behind him were shut, the door to his room locked, but he could still hear the brainless woman, and her Head of Security speaking in the common area.

"My men checked every square inch. Including risking life and limb in your—the Saiyan's room. There is no one here."

"Are you sure? Are all your men accounted for? Perhaps one has stayed behind." Her last words were muffled, and Vegeta knew she was biting her nails again. His grip on the balustrade tightened, and thin fractures spider-webbed along the stone. Disgusting habit.

"Ms. Briefs, every one of my men have been with me for years. And frankly, I don't think it's them we should be concerned with."

"What do you mean?"

There was a pause. Vegeta lifted his face to the starlit sky.

"Ms. Briefs-Bulma, you are sharing your quarters with a notorious madman. I've read the file on him. The one you composed yourself from the database of his crashed ship. You know as well as I do he can't be trusted."

"Vegeta is the only one who can protect me."

"Protect you from what?"

"From him."

Again, there was a pause. Vegeta's dark eyes swept the shadows between the ghostly birch trees that butted the property.

"Bulma, he can't get you here. You are surrounded by men who would give their lives for you. I am tireless in my surveillance. I'm the one who is protecting you. If you are so worried, why don't you speak to the police? The sooner he is in custody, the sooner you will be relieved."

"I told you, I don't remember him," Bulma spat, and for the first time there was venom in her voice. In that moment, Vegeta heard the real her. "Just his hands," she murmured. The moment passed. She was lost again.

"Perhaps, a therapist—." Glass shattered. Vegeta shifted his stance, glancing behind him. He couldn't see, but he could hear the frantic rustling of movement in the common area.

"This can't go on Bulma. You didn't even tell anyone you had invited him in. What will your mother think? You put your faith in a madman to protect you when it is clear he can't be trusted, not in these rooms, not in this house and certainly not in your bed."

"We aren't!" Vegeta heard shock, before it dissipated into hauteur. "It's none of your business. You've done your job, Max. Leave."

There were shuffling steps, and then the front door opened and shut. Vegeta followed the man's ki down the hall, noting the faint flutters of the servants Nguyen passed on his way downstairs. He remained standing on the balcony, too angry to return inside. His back was still to the door when it unlocked an hour later. Light flooded behind him, and he could see his shadow on the small square of lawn in front of him. He refused to turn when the French doors swung open.

He expected to hear her soft step on the marble, but the only sound was her teeth taking off a tiny sliver of nail.

"You should come in, Vegeta. It's not safe."

He made no reply.

"I've made dinner."

He could smell roast meat, and the sharp tang of spices, but he still didn't move. He listened as she retreated into the room a few steps, the springs of his bed groaning as she sat.

"You're mad at me."

The growl escaped him before he could harness it. Bulma sighed, and Vegeta felt the skin on his back crawl.

"If you had just looked around when I asked, I wouldn't have had to call, Max. We were in the Gravity Room all day. Anyone could have snuck in here, and hidden themselves." Bulma's voice was pitched, but Vegeta still didn't respond.

"Vegeta, please."

"Please, what?" His voice sounded rough, even to him.

"Please, don't be mad."

"Or what?"

She didn't respond, and the silence echoed around them.

"Or, what?" he asked louder. He spun to face her, stalking into the room with predatory intent. The light from the two lamps on either side of the bed blinded him, but not long enough for him to miss the spasm of fear crossing her fine angular features. Her hand was clenched around her throat as if hiding something. He noticed her doing that from time to time. She never left her neck exposed. It was the defensive posture of a victim.

"You will threaten the incapacitation of the Gravity Simulator? The same tired ploy again and again?" He leaned over, nose to nose with her, so he could peer into her eyes. "We both know that's not why I jump when you snap your frail human fingers."

"You jump?" Her whisper was nearly inaudible. She returned his stare with the dull intensity of hypnotized prey.

Vegeta lashed out in a burst of fury, backhanding the Tiffany lamp. The bulb popped as a rainbow of shards pelted the wall, and rained down on the plush sea foam carpet. Their side of the room dimmed, and the sting in Vegeta's eyes eased.

"You and your pathetic friends think you have me fooled, but I know your game. You bring me to your domicile so you can spy on me. Monitor my progress in the gravity simulator so you can inform on me to my enemies. And when that wasn't enough, you concocted this farce to keep an even closer eye on me."

The look she shot him was full of open-faced astonishment. She thought he didn't know her tricks, but he did. He was the Saiyan Prince, not a court fool.

"That's just not true, Vegeta."

"Prince Vegeta," he hissed. "How easily you forget my sovereignty when you think you have the upper hand. You all think you have me where you want me. If I don't jump through your hoops, you will sic your third-class dog on me. How you all must laugh at the prince too weak to beat his subjects into submission."

"No one is laughing at you, I swear."

"Shut your mouth. I'm tired of your lies—of your stupid human games. Sic your dog on me now. Let him kill me. That's what you want, isn't it?"

Bulma leapt up from the bed, forestalling Vegeta before he could stalk away. She placed her cool palms on his hot cheeks, forcing him to look into her impossibly large eyes. An inky strand of hair curled across her pale brow, and Vegeta couldn't help, but to think how delicate the treacherous whore looked.

"No one is out to get you, V—Prince Vegeta. I'm not plotting against you, or spying on you. No one is. It's all in your imagination."

With strong fingers around her thin wrists, he pulled her hands away from his face.

"Sound advice, little female. You should heed it." His voice was even, and it stilled the panic that brewed in her eyes as he ranted. He watched her closely, feeling the fluttering pulse beneath his fingertips become steady. "Do you know what I am?"

"A prince?"

"I'm a warrior. I can feel the essence of every man, woman, and animal in this compound, from the chef in the lower level lab cafeteria to the mouse behind the refrigerator with a stolen cracker crumb. With little effort I can extend my senses to include the whole of the city, and even further up the mountainside to that pathetic buffoon's hovel. So the next time I tell you, no one is here, you will know it to be true."  
Bulma gaped as he spoke, and she nodded in agreement.

"You will not allow trespassers into my rooms again. Including, that failure of a security man. I will not withstand the disrespect of such an intrusion a second time."

She was still nodding, when her mouth snapped closed. Fire lit up in her blue eyes, and Vegeta was momentarily fascinated.

"Our rooms," she clarified.

He snorted, pushing her towards the door.

"Whatever. Reheat the surely inadequate meal you've prepared. I will be out shortly."

She walked to the door, flashing him a barren excuse of a smile.

"No one here is out to get you. You know that right, Vegeta?"

He turned his back on her, stepping out into the cool darkness of the balcony. He listened to her leave, lifting his face to the stars.

"It's Prince Vegeta," he declared to the light that used to be his world.


	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer: I don't own or profit from DBZ.

A/N: Check out a second unexpected installment of Scandalous. To make it easier have started another account on fan fiction dot net under the pen name Temptingtemptation.

Fixation

Chapter Seven

Vegeta's sigh rattled around in his hollow chest when the Gravity Room inexplicably powered down, triggered from an outside source. He knew it wasn't the woman. He could feel her beneath him, twitching around with manic energy. She was the reason for his bad mood. He had been immersed in her for the last week. She was everywhere, beneath him during the day, outside the room where he slept at night. The smell of her was embedded in his sheets, spawning dark, rich dreams of skin and hair, and breathy little moans. All things he did not want to desire with every fiber of his being. He stared at the darken ceiling of his room, learning too much about miracle cleansers and closet spacers, while the woman gyred downward into sleepless paranoia, pulling him with her.

He zeroed in on the bright, sunshine ki outside the door, turning away to shrug on a shirt as it slid open. Vegeta had learned, first from his mother the queen, then from the rare encounters with ice-jinn females that matriarchs were always to be respected, no matter what you thought of them personally. Bulma's mother was the most vacuous creature he had ever met, but that did nothing to diminish her status as wife to a wealthy man who was considered a king among the scientific community.

Mrs. Briefs always fluttered in a way that reminded him of yellow canaries trapped in a cage. As if she was always on the verge of flight from the pandemonium that was her mind. People like her made him nervous. Unpredictability was not a trait he admired in others.

"There you are dearie."

Vegeta raised a dark brow, for clearly he had never been lost.

"I brought you a snack."

He watched as she placed a large plate of delicious smelling chocolate chip cookies on the control panel, precariously close to the gravity regulator. He continued to stare as she fussed with the arrangement, turning the plate just so while he assumed she worked up the courage to speak her mind. It would have been easier to oust her from his training room, but then there would be screeching, and tears, and probably more screeching from the other female, and of course there was her position to be considered.

She spun away from the plate in a flurry of determination, and looked him dead in the eye. His estimation of her increased by a notch. Only the bravest or craziest of beings looked him in the eye.

"So I understand that you are staying with Bulma in her rooms."

Vegeta crossed his arms. If she was going to cry foul, then she was about to bite off more than she could chew. Her daughter was the one to invite him in, and despite his nighttime fantasies, he was not going to be engaging in any sort of relations with the crazy, blue-haired woman, sexual or otherwise. He set his face into a scowl that would have warned off the most hardened of warriors, but Mrs. Briefs was disturbingly unaffected as she suddenly crossed the distance between them, her hands clasped together in near prayer.

"Is she okay? Is she eating? How does she look?"

Taken aback, Vegeta uncrossed his arms, readying himself to push her away if necessary, and put some distance between them.

"You don't know?"

She clamped a trembling hand over her mouth, turning away. Vegeta could smell salt in the air.

"No. She hasn't let me in for weeks. Somewhere, somehow I failed her. I was too young. Too spoiled. I should have been a better mother. Now, she needs me, and she won't let me help."

Vegeta shifted his weight, glancing at the door. He could most definitely take his training elsewhere.

"When she ordered all those groceries to be sent up to her room. I was relieved. I thought she finally got her appetite back. But now I see it was just for you."

Vegeta thought of their evenings together. How she fixed him large meals. How she talked to him between bites while he ate in silence.

"She eats."

Mrs. Briefs shot him a smile full of liquid sunshine.

"And is she sleeping?"

Vegeta shrugged, looking away. From the corner of his eye he watched her smile dim.

"Is she still covering her neck?"

Vegeta didn't reply. Mrs. Briefs frowned, lost in her thoughts.

"When she sees herself in the mirror she becomes so distressed."

Her gaze sharpened on him, and he realized for the first time that she had the same bright, blue eyes as Bulma.

"She must trust you an awful lot to allow you into her rooms."

Alarm squirreled its way through Vegeta's guts.

"I don't' think—"

"You must do something for me." She placed a small hand on his chest. Vegeta was appalled. What was it with humans and touching? "Watch over my baby. Make sure she eats, and gets some sleep. Try to encourage her to come out of her rooms to see her family or just out. Humans need sunshine to be happy and healthy."

Vegeta swatted her hand away, feeling the oppressive weight of her pleas in its wake.

"I am not a nanny. I am merely fulfilling a bargain. Your daughter's health is of no concern to me. If you want to cluck then I suggest you do it face to face. She's downstairs now."

She brightened, and it felt like the sun had found its way into the room. She fluttered with excited energy, and Vegeta could hear the rustle of bird feathers. "She's out of her room? That's wonderful, Vegeta! I knew you were a good boy." Before he could stop her, she planted a kiss on his cheek. He rubbed at the gummy, pink smear as if it was infused with poison, his face plastered with a look of absolute disgust. She failed to notice as she skipped across the room, and disappeared down the hatch.

It was dark before she left, and cookies were a distant memory digesting in Vegeta's stomach. As tasty as they had been, they did nothing to assuage Vegeta's anger. He had been forced to do nothing, but katas on the lawn while she visited with her crazy daughter. He couldn't figure out how she turned off the gravity room, much less how to turn it back on, and he wasn't about to go ask. He glared silent daggers at her back as she traipsed into the house, humming a happy little tune.

He was standing alone on the darkened lawn, looking at the yellow squares of light on the grass pouring from the windows of the house. He was bone-deep tired. Not just from his current situation, but from everything. His entire life there had always been something to do. A new mission to complete. Revenge to plot. Subordinates to humiliate. Now there was nothing. His life was nothing. He had nothing of his own, and nowhere to go. He had spent his adulthood, fearing that Frieza would grow tired of his insubordination, and kill him on the spot before he could complete his revenge, but now Vegeta found himself in the very precarious position of being unable to die if he wanted to. The only acceptable way to die for a Saiyan was in battle, and the only being strong enough to kill him would rather play buddy-buddy than do him in like he should.

It would seem the sentence for his crimes was life.

Vegeta never would admit that he wanted to die. For it just to be done and over with. Hell, he didn't really even admit it to himself, but there was the exhaustion. That bone-deep need for sleep. The kind of sleep you never wake from.

He shook himself, turning to face the space-ship. The woman was waiting for him inside. Waiting for him to be some sort of white knight. She had better not hold her breathe, he decided in a flash of anger. He levitated off the ground, flying towards his new room. As soon as he touched down on the balcony, something started to twist in the pit of his stomach. He ignored it, and strode with single-mindedness to the bathroom, where he stripped his clothes to take a shower.

Tonight, he was going to take a little break. He needed to get a full night's sleep to throw off the funk he was in. A shower, a meal, and sleep were all he needed. He would feel better in the morning. He stood, his face upturned towards the spray as it washed the sweat from his body. From beneath his closed lids, his eyes moved rapidly as he checked for the ki of the woman still beneath his training room, trapped there by her own inability to conquer the fear that left her incapable of leaving the tiny room without him by her side. He cranked the water off, nearly crushing the knobs as he realized what he was doing, and stepped out of the shower.

With a flare of ki he dried himself as he crossed the room, uncaring that he left footsteps of water back on the bathroom floor. By the time he reached the dresser there wasn't a lick of water left on him. He pulled on a dark pair of sweats, leaving his chest bare since there was no woman's sense of propriety to be concerned with.

He moved through the suite with the lights off. In the kitchen he rooted around the fridge, his eyes slit against the light. He found some cheese tortellini, and he ate it cold, right out of the bowl, while leaning against the sink. His eyes swept the living area, relishing the quiet around him. He tossed the empty bowl into the sink, stretching his arms above his head, smiling a little as he thought of the deep sleep about to come. He tried to leave the sick feeling in his stomach behind with the dirty dishes.

The bedroom looked blue in the dark. The French doors were open to the breeze, and he could smell jasmine and lilac in the air. The gravity room was powered down so the only thing he could hear was a dog barking in the distance, and the chirping of crickets in the grass. The sheets were cool, and felt soothing against his skin. He lay on his back, his hands folded beneath his head as he watched the shadows play on the ceiling. There was an angry shout, and the dog grew quiet. The crickets continued to chip, and an owl signaled its intent to hunt. He watched the shadows, but his eyes didn't grow heavy, and the squirming his belly worsened. In the deepest pools of darkness he saw faces and places he had hoped to forget, and when the wind kicked up the shadows wavered looking like flames.

An hour later, Vegeta was sitting up with a growl, and the room was dancing with an angry, blue light. There was only one thing that Radditz had taught his young prince about Saiyan heritage, and that was every curse word known to their language. Vegeta was repeating every single one as he forced open the door to the living quarters beneath the gravity chamber.

Light exploded in front of him, and projectiles that he couldn't dodge slammed into his chest with a burst of fire and sulfur. Electricity jolted him with enough juice to down a rushing bull elephant, and sizzle its tail right off its gargantuan body. Vegeta shot back through the doorway, hitting the far wall with a crack. He was barely able to stop his knees from buckling as he leaned against the wall for support. His chest was blackened, and the bottoms of his feet were raw and blistered. When the smoke cleared, he could see the rubble of exploded, homemade missiles launched from a jerry-rigged contraption in the center of the room. Tapped to the floor was a live wire that was ripped straight from the electrical conduit in the wall. There was no sign of Bulma.

Cautiously, he righted himself, swallowing his wince as he put his full weight on his burnt feet. His wounds were already starting to heal, but that did nothing to assuage his anger.

"Woman," he bellowed loud enough to shake the walls.

He felt her ki fluctuate, and he pinpointed her in the bathroom on the other side of the room. Sweeping the newly renovated office for anymore booby-traps, he crossed the distance quickly, pausing at the doorway, to check the bathroom. Seeing nothing dangerous, he easily found the woman huddled inside the barren shower that had no door. She was squatting on the dry, cold tile, looking at him from between her fingers that were cupping her face. A tight muscle in his jaw ticked. Carefully he stepped into the room, avoiding the shards of shattered glass from the broken mirror above the sink.

"You left me!"

He was half way across the room before she flung the accusation at him. He was a little stunned at her brassiness. After all, he was giving serious thought to killing her.

"What the fuck was that shit all about?" He yelled, sweeping his hand behind him towards the other room.

"If you weren't going to protect me then I had to do it myself."

He stared at her. That was the first sane thing he'd heard her utter in a while. It was about time she starting taking responsibility for her own safety. If she had known how to protect herself in the first place, then she wouldn't be in this shit-fuck state now, would she?

"And what was your plan after? Plead pathetically for your life as you wallowed in your own piss?"

She shot to her feet, her face pinched with anger.

"What do you mean? My missiles were ingenious. I built those little babies out of nothing. Just junk that was laying around. Freaking brilliant of me. It's not my fault you are impossible to kill."

Vegeta crossed his arms, glaring at her. "Well it seems like they were a failure just like everything else you do." Too late he realized he pushed too far. The newborn confidence in her delicate features shattered, and she slumped back down, looping her arms around her knees, and hiding her face.

"You're right, it wouldn't have killed him."

Vegeta cursed himself, and shook his head. Glancing around the room, looking at anything but her, he focused at the fragment of mirror at his feet.

"Of course it would have killed him. Like you said, I'm a God, and he's just some puke of a human.

She lifted her head, so she might peak at him with big, blue eyes.

"I am positive the words, "You're a God," have never crossed my lips."

He lifted a corner of his mouth in a smile that he knew from experience most women liked. Her eyes widened, and she dropped her face back into the crook of her arms. Vegeta rolled his eyes, mentally smacking himself. He absolutely was _not_ flirting with the bat-shit crazy human.

"Why did you leave me, Vegeta?"

Her voice was muffled, and that sick little squirm was back in his belly.

"I didn't. I was merely doing a perimeter sweep." Vegeta had lied so many times in his life that they tasted no different than truths. This time there was bile, and he wondered why his tongue felt swollen.

"You were?" She was eying his sweats and bare chest, and he wondered if she discerned his lie. The idea of her knowing that he lied made something awkward flip in his chest. Why was he protecting her from the truth? Why did he care if she knew he lied? What was caring?

He looked her in the eye, raising his chin a notch.

"The Prince of All Saiyans does not lower himself to lie."

"Oh." Her face clouded, and he was relieved when she looked away. Her hair was growing out, and he could see powder blue along the line of her scalp on the top of her head.

He toed the fragment of mirror, seeing only a reflection of one dark eye.

"What's with your war on mirrors? Going to purge every last one of them from existence?"

She swallowed, and rubbed her throat with a trembling hand. At her action he had a moment of perfect clarity. He looked around, knowing that he was as alone as he was ever going to be with someone. He bent down to pick up the large shard, and walked over to the defeated woman. With a steady hand at her elbow, he stood her up. She looked at him with questioning eyes. He stared into them, and wondered exactly what color they were. They weren't just blue. They were something more. Something deeper.

"When resurrected, the body is healed completely. There are no open wounds or scars. Everything is pristine."

She shifted towards him, her face upraised in rapture as if he was speaking the gospel of some wondrous unknown god.

"But the soul is still damaged."

She tightened her delicate hand around her neck, and nodded. He brought the mirror up to breast level, angling it so they could both see the reflection of his chest. She saw only smooth, caramel skin. Vegeta saw something more.

"These soul-wounds are only visible to the resurrected. They fade in time, but when I first came back I could see the bloody hole where Frieza struck me down." He stared into the mirror for a long time, Bulma silent beside him. Finally he tossed the mirror away, and it shattered against the wall. Neither of them moved at the gun-shot loud pop.

He looked down at her, and for the first time he realized she had wrapped her cool fingers around his wrist.

"Soon your soul-wound will cease to bleed, and there will only be a scar left. Perhaps even that will be gone someday as well." The last part was a hopeful plea on his part.

"Thank you, Vegeta."

She blinked, and he was released from her spell. He shook her off, and crossed the room to lead her out.

"Don't cut your feet on the glass, weakling."

Bulma smiled, following him home while watching where she stepped.


	8. Chapter 8

Disclaimer: I don't own or profit from DBZ.

Fixation

Chapter Eight.

As Vegeta moved through the steps of his kata, blue ki danced at the edges of his fingertips. It swirled around his hands, and licked up his arms as he switched stances. Sweat beaded his brow, and his skin gleamed bronze in the afternoon sunlight. Everything about him was precise, controlled, his breathing, the flexing of his muscles, the position of his hands. Every nuance that was Vegeta was reflected in the graceful way he moved. Bulma strategically lay on a towel on the metal ramp that led into the spaceship, while Vegeta worked on the lawn. A pair of dark sunglasses hid her eyes as she watched him, her book on spatial physics forgotten. She wasn't just there for the show. She had to be there. To be near him, within sight of him, within touching distance, if she could get away with it with her hide intact. Only then did she feel safe. Plus, she had the added bonus of soaking up some much needed sunshine.

Not wanting to get growled at for staring, she rolled onto her back, practically purring as the sunshine warmed her. She hadn't realized how chalky her skin had gotten after weeks of confinement. She took a shower for the first time this morning, completely naked with only a hint of trepidation. As she lathered on the body wash, the grumblings of natural vanity began. After her shower she took the time, still naked and alone in the tiny box of the bathroom, to rub lotion over every inch of her severely dehydrated skin, and in doing so, remnants of herself gathered around her like a tattered cloak. There were still huge rips in her self-esteem, exposing the rawness bleeding inside, but she was slowly healing the holes in her soul.

She watched Vegeta with new eyes. Since their encounter a few days ago, she had begun to feel differently about him. About herself even. Today she lounged in a pair of red running shorts and a white tank, her neck completely uncovered. She still couldn't look at herself in a mirror, but while in Vegeta's presence she didn't feel the overwhelming, cowering need to cover herself from head to toe. And a very tiny voice, one she was trying very hard to quash, was wondering if he noticed how much better she looked.

She flipped on her stomach, her bare feet waving in the air as she studied Vegeta. His face was creased in concentration, his muscles rhythmically flexing with discipline she could only imagine. There was a tiny tickle in the bottom of her belly. She identified it right away. It was fascination, curiosity, and attraction. Mainly, it was annoyance that he was concentrating so hard on something that wasn't her, and there was only one way to correct that.

"So you can feel ki at anytime?"

He didn't even lose a beat as she spoke.

"Yes."

"Can you feel mine?"

His eyebrow twitched, and a Cheshire smile of victory crested her lips.

"You _are_ right in front of me."

"Could you find me anywhere?"

"What do you mean?"

Bulma sat up, suddenly serious.

"If I was lost in a crowd, could you find me?"

"Your ki is negligible."

Bulma tilted her head to the side as she watched his muscles ripple.

"What does that mean?"

"Ki doesn't come with nametags, idiot. It is easy to identify if there is something about it that stands out, like a high power rating. But ki such as yours would just blend away with the multitudes."

Bulma played with the hem of her shirt, doing her very best not to bite her nails that were just recovering from their recent ravishment.

"Do you suppose that's why Goku didn't come for me?"

The soft question was carried away by the breeze.

Vegeta stopped with his back to her. The same breeze that carried her words, wrapped around him, drying the sweat on his body. He watched the leaves on the birch trees sway at the far end of the property.

"Finding you would be easy, if one knew where to look. I know exactly where you are at all times while at Capsule Corporation, but that is because I have identified everyone here. If you were moved off the grounds, then…" He shrugged, still watching the trees.

"The same would go for Goku."

Vegeta shifted his gaze towards the front of the house. His eyes narrowed, and wordlessly he stepped into another series of katas.

"Would you be able to track _him_?"

"I neither know what he looks like, nor what he feels like." Vegeta's words were terse, and she could hear the finality in them.

A shadow fell across her, and she shrunk back in horror. The muscles across Vegeta's back rippled out of rhythm to his kata.

"Babe, you're hair!" Bulma was locked beneath Yamcha. His wide eyes were glued to her mop of short black curls, the blue roots grown out about an inch. He saw the stricken look on her face, and interrupted it as hurt over his thoughtless words. "No, I mean it's great. You look like one of those fancy china dolls. You know? The ones with the really white skin. I mean-you're always pretty. I'm so glad to see you out and about! Your mother called me to let me know the good news."

"Lemonade, anyone?" Mrs. Briefs called cheerily from the shade of the back porch.

Yamcha's shadow smothered her, and all Bulma could do was cower at his feet, her boney hand wrapped around her throat protectively.

"Stand up," Vegeta issued the order with stringency that had Bulma on her feet in mere seconds.

Once on equal ground, her paralyzing fear evaporated, leaving behind awkward timidity that was expressed in her shifty eyes that refused to settle on any one part of Yamcha's smiling face.

Normally, with so many people crowding the backyard, Vegeta would have left. Bulma wondered why he stayed.

"What are you doing here?" Bulma felt shaky. She didn't know what to do with her hands, and finally opted to tuck them beneath her armpits. Her forearms crossed over her chest, made her feel somewhat protected. She knew she wasn't afraid of Yamcha. She trusted him with her life. She was sure of it. He would never hurt her. But did he have to stand so close? She stepped back, putting at least an arm's length between them. He flashed her a confused smile that was edged with hurt. A sick feeling thickened in her chest, and she wanted to apologize, to explain, but she wasn't sure what she could say.

"I just wanted to come by, and see how you are. Everyone is worried. We haven't seen you in weeks."

"I'm fine. Just resting, you know."

"Yes, of course. I'm so happy you're back. Take your time. I just wanted to spend some time with my best girl."

_Best girl_. The sticky endearment rolled around in her head, gathering filth and slime until it was covered in shame. She remembered long fingers touching her hair, and happy chortling echoing in the darkness. Bulma's shoulders hunched, and she took another step away from Yamcha. The happiness on his face shattered.

"Did I say something wrong?"

"No. I'm just tired. I wasn't expecting to see you, and I guess I feel overwhelmed."

"Babe. I'm sorry. It's not like that. I just wanted to spend some time with you. Maybe take you shopping at the mall. I know that's your favorite."

Panic crested her fine porcelain features, and Vegeta could feel the immediate spike in her ki. He swept up a clean towel, and used it to swipe the sweat from his neck and shoulders. He passed behind the couple, walking with sure, steady strides into the Gravity Room. Bulma immediately turned to follow, not even signaling a good bye to Yamcha.

"Bulma!" He hurried after her, and Bulma broke out into a startled trot. She ducked under Vegeta's arm as he stood braced in the doorway. As soon as she entered he depressed the button, watching the stunned confusion on the other man's face as the door slide closed between them.

When he turned he found Bulma collapsed on the training room floor, gasping like a fish out of water. He watched her for a few seconds, moving only slightly closer before dropping down to do push-ups. There was silence between them, punctuated only by their breathing.

"You should make more of an effort," Vegeta rasped out curtly, startling Bulma who had been staring sightlessly at the polished metal ceiling. "You are one of _those_ people."

Bulma turned her head to look at Vegeta. He was glaring squarely at the floor between his hands.

"Those people?"

"People who like other people. You crave their attention. Their company."

Bulma shot him a nasty look before glancing away. She slung her arm over her eyes, cutting out everything except the sound of Vegeta's even breaths.

"I used to be one of those people."

"So that's how it's going to be?" Vegeta's response was sharp, compared to her deadened voice.

"How what is going to be?"

"You are going to allow _him_ to have all the power over you. The power to trap you, change you. Mold you into exactly what he wants. Are you going to allow _him_ to dictate what you wear and who you talk to? If you do that, then you will never escape him. You will always be in that place; you will always be his captive."

Bulma shot off the floor as if she had been struck by a live wire.

"How dare you talk to me that way? You have no idea what I've gone through."

Vegeta was unaffected by her outburst.

"Don't I?"

"It seems to me you are still held captive by Frieza. What are you training so hard for? You're free now. Go do whatever it is you want. Go be a king, find a queen, have some heirs, and live a royal apple pie life. Go be who you want to be."

Vegeta came off the floor in one smooth motion that was exhilarating in its power and grace. He stalked her with his dark eyes, and she felt a flutter of something awesome in the bottom of her belly.

"This is who I am," he grated out. In the darkness of his eyes she saw loneliness. And for the first time since her resurrection she thought about someone besides herself. She wondered for the barest fraction of a second what Vegeta would have been like if he hadn't been taken as a child by a sadistic monster. She had lived for a few fleeting weeks in captivity, but Vegeta had lived a lifetime.

"Who you were meant to be, or who he turned you into?"

The question was barely out before he had her herded against the wall, no touching required, just waves of his presence thrusting her back. He was comfort and terror wrapped together in a confusing masculine package. Her brain was screaming that _men_ where bad, but her body definitely liked the heat he was giving off.

"You shouldn't ask questions you don't want the answers too."

She couldn't look him in the eye. Instead she focused on the steady beat of his pulse at his throat. Hers was pounding wildly in her ears, and she wondered how he stayed so calm all the time.

"Maybe I do want the answer."

"What if the answer is that I was always meant to be a monster?"

Her hand was on his chest before she could stop herself. Her palm was over his heart, and she could feel the damp sweat on his skin. She didn't know if she was pushing him away in panic or checking to see if he was a flesh and blood man with a heartbeat, but she did know that she liked the feel of his skin next to hers. He smelled like hard work and sunshine, and she had to bite her lip to keep from asking him to lean closer. She swallowed hard, screwing up her courage to look him in the eye.

"I've seen a real monster. You look nothing like one."

He was watching her closely, and when their eyes met it was the signal he needed to dip his head towards hers.

"That's because I'm hiding." He was whispering. They were alone. The room was reinforced, soundproof steel, and he was whispering to her as if he was telling her a secret in a room full of gossiping wives. Trapped in his eyes, her voice dropped an octave as she spoke.

"No, I think for once you're not hiding. This is the real you, Vegeta. How long has it been since you killed? Weeks? Months? Since Namek? Given the choice, Vegeta, you aren't a killer."

"What you are talking about is restraint." He was towering over her, so close she could feel his words on her lips. His hands were loose at his sides, his chest pressing into her palm, urging her to feel more of him, but he made no move to touch her back. "I have no need to kill so I haven't. But make no mistake, I will kill again in the future if need be."

Her fingers curled at his words, her short nails scraping over his damp skin. His flat nipple hardened, and she caught her breath.

"That just makes you a predator. Not a monster. There is a difference, Vegeta."

His eyes were dark and unreadable. She tilted her head back in silent invitation, watching with female fascination as his pupils dilated. He lowered his mouth to hers, and electricity shot between them. No tongue, just warm, firm lips brushing against each other.

Then his hands were braced on either side of her head, and his wide shoulders caged her in. His lips parted, pressing greedily at her mouth to open. His breath was hot and suffocating on her cheek, and she knew she had to get away. She wrenched her mouth to the side, her tiny knuckles digging into chest. She stumbled through air, and she opened her eyes, surprised to see the well lit gravity room. Her wild gaze found him standing a few feet away, his dark eyes still unreadable.

He turned away, walking stiffly towards the gravity controller. She wanted to call him back, to apologize, to try again, because, my god the beginning was so good, but fear had crawled its way into her throat, and she couldn't dislodge it. Silently, she walked to her room, slipping down the ladder without a backwards glance, and securing the hatch so he could get back to training.


	9. Chapter 9

Disclaimer: I don't own or profit from DBZ.

Fixation

Chapter Nine

The wet, smooth clay was supple beneath his palms as it spun on the wheel, the fine, white earthenware slipping between his fingers and under his nails. With rhythmic consistency he pumped the petal, every fiber in his being focused on the curves and dips of the urn he was creating. He wetted the clay with water from the basin, splattering his bare chest and clean-shaven cheeks as he leaned closer.

It was dark in his workroom. The tall lamp behind him and the television in the corner were the only illuminations. In the next room his kiln clicked as it slowly heated. There wasn't enough ventilation in the basement, and the cement walls bleed with humidity as the temperature rose. Sweat dripped off his bare chest, mixing with his clay. He smiled with straight, even teeth, pleased to become part of his creation.

On the wall next to him photographs smiled. Strands of honey hair, eyes hidden beneath dark sunglasses. She was beautiful. A work of art.

The familiar strains of the lead-in music to E-Star filtered from the television, and with keen dexterity he snatched up a goop-smeared remote with one hand while keeping his creation centered, eager to see if his new best girl would be flashing him any clandestine smiles as she flirted with him through the paparazzi.

"I'm here to dish the dirt as rumors abound about the sudden appearance of Bulma Briefs in the media. Reported by her family to be on extend holiday, even as hearsay said she was the latest victim of the serial killer, Sincerely Yours, the scandal revolving around the high society debutant has been controversial to say the least. With us now is our onsite journalist Kristy Kasey with the startling revelation that Ms. Briefs may be alive and well, and living the high life in her posh compound at Capsule Corporation."

"Thank you, Snookie. With me I have forensic specialist Dr. Kyle Lemmers, an expert with facial recognition software. As you know a photograph was released to the press showing a woman with black hair standing on the back lawn of the Capsule Corporation property. Speculation abounds as to whether the woman was Bulma Briefs in disguise. Dr. Lemmers will now show us why he believes that the mysterious woman is indeed Ms. Briefs."

The soft, barely formed vase collapsed beneath his hands as he stood up to see the television clearly. Two photos flashed on the screen. One was of Bulma Briefs smiling brightly at the camera, her blue hair tousled around her face. He felt immediate arousal as he stared at the picture. The photograph captured the first moment they shared together. He knew the instant he laid eyes on it that she was smiling just for him. Her sparkling eyes sending him a plea to liberate her from her dull prison of monotony so they could be together forever. It had taken him months of careful watching to devise a plan to save her from the dragons that plagued her daily life. And eventually he had, and she had been so grateful. He stared into her eyes as she was strapped beneath him, and saw love and admiration deep in her soul. After he saved her, and loved her, they had parted ways. It had to be a mistake. His lover could not be alive. He would know if she was alive, he would feel it in his bones.

The second photo was of a woman at a distance. Her black hair was glossy in the bright sunshine, and her pale features were sharp with wear. Next to her stood Yamcha Bandit, the heiress' long time boyfriend and captor. The monster he had striven so hard to free her from. There was a second man who stood apart from them, bare-chested, he was staring into the camera, a scowl plastered on his handsome features. He had no idea who the man was, but he knew for certain the dark-haired woman could not possibly be his Bulma. His love would never desecrate her beautiful blue tresses in such a hideous fashion.

Lines and dots dissected the photos, and he tuned back in to hear the doctor speak.

"As you can see the brow ridge and nose bones are exactly the same, as well as the high cheek bones. There is a ninety-five percent match in facial structure. I have no doubt that the woman in the photo is Bulma Briefs."

On screen a detective from West City Police apologized for the misunderstanding, and did confirm that Bulma Briefs was not the victim of a homicide.

In silent rage the man tore from his work room, stomping up the stairs and into his elegant loft. He disregarded his normal fastidiousness, usually disliking having to clean up drops of clay from his Asian bamboo floor. He crossed to the living room, skirting the expensive black, art deco couch to his most prized painting opposite the window overlooking an outstanding view of the bay.

He took down the floral Monet, and set it aside. With his fingertips, he felt for the nearly imperceptible divots in the honey-blonde, wood paneling. Once settled, a fingerprint scanner verified his ID, and a secret door slid open. Inside was a small, well-lit room with floating shelving. On the shelves were urns of all different colors and sizes. Each one was special, made with a one-of-kind mixture of clay, bone and blood. In the center was his prize.

His newest piece, an azure urn with delicate rounded curves and a slender neck, was crumpled in on itself, as if something fundamentally important had been stripped from the composition. Thin lips pulled back from sharp, white teeth, as the man slammed his fist down on the shelf, sending the entire unit crashing to the floor.

Spinning on his heel, he rushed down to his workroom. Frothing, he scrapped the photos of his newest love from the wall, crushing them in his fists before dropping them to the floor. It was time for him to start over again. Time to reclaim what was his.

8888888

Vegeta watched the shadows deepen on the ceiling. It seemed to him, that he spent an inordinate amount of his life flat on his back, usually bloody and beaten, while trying his damdest to ignore reality. Previously that reality had been servitude, something he denied every time he announced himself as Prince with a strident, unforgiving voice. Can't be a slave _and_ a prince. Can't be alive _and_ dead.

Presently, the reality he was trying to ignore was the flighty, insubstantial fluff of a girl in the next room who couldn't even stand up to her own shadow, yet had somehow managed to muscle herself into his life. The only explanation he could find for her intrusion was his own base weakness. The overwhelming pall of loneliness that had descended upon him since being resurrected was slowly eating him away into nothingness. Though he had complained of it bitterly in the past, thinking solitude could somehow repress the restlessness of his mind, he had in fact never been alone until now.

Radditz, loud, rude and chronically obnoxious had been his only boyhood companion. A few years his senior, the boy had passed on his knowledge to the young prince of drinking games, crass jokes and how to get a woman. In later years, the more precious knowledge of what to do with a woman once gained was imparted by the roguish man to the prince. Not that Vegeta had use of that knowledge often, but it was valuable to have.

Now Radditz was dead, and Vegeta would never growl at the man to shut up after one of his hideously distasteful jokes while inwardly smirking. At times, when it was the darkest, Vegeta wondered if the man had purposely been crass to keep his Prince from descending completely into the depths of unfeeling stoicism.

Then there was Nappa. Big, strong and not as dumb as he looked, he was the closest thing Vegeta had to a father. The man had raised him, protected him the best he could, and taught him life lessons. Lessons like, it was better to die proud than live weak, and that family was worth more than dying for, it was worth living in shame for.

Vegeta hadn't wanted to kill him, but he owed Nappa a debt that only he could pay. For Saiyans sins like murder, fornication and theft didn't exist. Those were secular vices, meant to be dealt within the secular world. For Saiyans there was only one sin-to die outside of battle. To do so meant you failed to provide protection, substance or honor to your family. As such, you were condemned to be without those things you failed to provide, left to battle for eternity on the desert plains of Ashcoth, constantly hungry and forever shamed, while those who died with honor feasted with friends and family in the Great Hall of the Moon God Nutri.

Nappa had been dying. An alien disease contracted from one of the multitudes they were forced into contact with daily. It wasn't until the battle with Kakarot that Vegeta realized how devolved Nappa had become. His boughts of rage and mistakes on the battlefield had been uncharacteristic. Vegeta knew the sickness had spread into his mentor's ki, and allowing him to live so irreparably crippled only served to diminish his honor, something that was unacceptable to them both.

At first the magnitude of being the last true Saiyan left hadn't resonated with Vegeta. He strove towards his goal of vengeance with single-mindedness. It wasn't until he was on Namek, relying on those who hated him to defeat Frieza did he realize how utterly alone he was. How useless his very existence was. The weight of a life without someone to call friend or ally crushed him, and in desperation he pursued Frieza with suicidal viciousness knowing the tyrant would eventually end him.

And end him he did.

Sometimes Vegeta could still taste the mead on his tongue from the Great Feast. One moment he was there, laughing with Nappa and Radditz, then the next, he was awake here on this jumbled mess of humanity, staring at the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. He'd known the instant he looked into her bright blue eyes that he wasn't in the Hall anymore, because there was no way she could be Saiyan, his luck, karma, destiny, whatever you wanted to call it would never be that good. And because she wasn't Saiyan his already tarnished honor dimmed just a little bit more. His attraction to her made this life sentence of flesh and blood hurt all the more, until it felt like his own body was crushing him.

Since Frieza beat the life out of him, Vegeta felt nothing. The world was colorless and dull. He could barely rouse the energy he needed to train. He often found himself standing in the middle of the gravity room, lost in his own thoughts, wondering if he came back wrong. Broken. Shattered. Irreparable. Was it possible to be alive on the outside, and dead on the inside?

What he would give to take that last step into oblivion. There was only being in the universe who could give him an honorable death, but Kakarot's damnable human morality kept him from fulfilling his Saiyan duty. Vegeta knew Kakarot would only kill him if he became an unavoidable threat to his precious adopted world, and the only way to do that was to become stronger.

In that way the deadness inside aided him. It allowed him to push past the pain, to disregard the ache of solitude, but it didn't help him to ignore Bulma. In fact, the fission of excitement he felt in her presence only served to intensify his attraction to her. She made him feel alive, even though she was half-dead herself.

When he kissed her, it electrified something inside him, reanimating a vitality he had been missing for a long time. Perhaps even before Frieza had murdered him. It made him thirst for something more. To be better. To beat Kakarot. Not just become a threat to him, but to defeat him, and show her that he was the better man in a fight. To show himself that he wasn't broken.

Then he had to go and ruin it. He had practically thrown himself on her. A woman whom been terrorized, tortured and murdered by a man whose face she had to block out of her memory just to survive. He was surprised she hadn't fallen into a catatonic state beneath him. He knew he was a terrifying man, and no matter how many times she swore that she felt safe in his presence, he knew that she must fear him. He had no right to take something from another person to make himself feel more alive. He was a prince not a monster.

An explosion, followed by the rat-a-tat-tat of gunfire rattled in the living room. Vegeta sighed and rubbed his palm over his face. He was sentenced to another sleepless night as a marathon of car bombs and shoot-outs ran on one of the all night movie channels. Though Bulma had started bathing on a regular basis and primping (something he definitely noticed) she still hadn't conquered her insomnia. Which mean he hadn't either.

Deciding that laying in bed was pointless, he swept the sheets aside. He shrugged on a dark blue button down shirt, and shook out his black shorts. He was feeling too sullen to button up his shirt before venturing out into the living room, figuring the woman would be too engrossed in her movies to care. The room was plunged in darkness, except for the ghostly glow of the television. He plodded across the room, and plopped down on the plush couch, his head cradled in one hand as he propped his elbow on the armrest, his other arm over the back. From the corner of his eye he watched the woman watch him. She was wearing a white spaghetti strap top that glowed in the dark and shorts. In her lap she had a large bowl of popcorn. Silently, she offered him the bowl, but he ignored it as a building collapsed on T.V.

They sat in silence, until the volume of their unspoken words were deafening. Not a word had been exchanged between them since the kiss, and Vegeta knew that not for the first time in his life he had made a mistake. He hadn't meant to advance on her. He hadn't even meant to get near her. To want her. To taste her. And he certainly never meant to scare her. There were many things in his life he had done that most would consider to be evil, but he had never regretted anything until now. He knew she was broken. She was practically incapable of existing on her own, much less make rational decisions. And according to human morality there was a very special hell for people who took advantage of those who were mentally handicapped.

"Vegeta?"

"Hn?"

Vegeta glanced at her sideways from beneath the veil of his lashes, surprised that she could even find the voice to speak. He assumed after the way he attacked her, the only way she would find the courage to speak to him again was to throw him out. She had set aside her bowl of popcorn and was toying with the hem of her tank top. The silence descended between them and Vegeta waited for the recriminations his hackles rising.

She moved faster than he would have given her credit for. She straddled him, her knees on either side of his thighs. His hands shot out to grip her hips, but she stopped him with light fingers on his wrists. He allowed her to pin his hands to the couch her insignificant weight settled delicately on his lap.

Too startled and far too uncomfortable to look her in the eye, he watched as she caressed her way down his forearm, before sliding her fingers between his. Her fingers were long and white, supremely delicate compared to his dark, blunted ones. Their hands didn't look like they should fit together, but they did, and that made something light and feathery shimmer in his chest.

"I really enjoyed our kiss, and I was hoping we might do it again."

Her words had his undivided attention. He tilted his strong jaw so he could look her in the eye. He pinned her with penetrating scrutiny, turning the tables, until she was the one to look away.

"No hands?"

The corners of her mouth flipped up into a pained smile, as she watched her fingers slide up and down his forearms. He couldn't stop his muscles from tensing and relaxing beneath her touch. It was as though his body had its own mind when it came to her touch. He wanted to bask in it.

"Hands make me nervous."

He wondered at what game she was playing at. She had been so incredibly timid up until this point. Granted in the last few weeks she had come out of her shell, going from practically being a deaf mute, to a motor-mouth who wouldn't shut up. Only with him. She only spoke with him. The look on her face when her boyfriend approached her had been one of abject terror. Was this just therapy for her?

"Where I'm from the male takes the lead."

"A real man has the discipline to let a woman be in control."

His heart sank a little, and he wondered why he cared.

"Control?" he asked neutrally.

"Just a little."

"It's not me whom you want control from."

She shrank back at the harsh snap in his words, and he instantly felt contrite. Her hand left his forearm, and his muscles twitched in agony. She ran her fingers through her short hair, playing with the curls before settling on the back of her neck. She still wasn't looking at him, and he missed the impact of her blue eyes on him.

"It's a start."

"I'm not one of your experiments." He could feel the anger building like a pressure bomb inside his chest. His flesh squeezed him, and he had to to inhale deeply to equalize himself.

Her shoulders stiff, she folded her hands in the vee of her legs, almost completely withdrawn from him. Her full lower lip tugged down into a pout that made him hungry.

"I used to be confident. A woman who knew her place in the world, and was happy in her skin. Men were drawn like moths to me, and I gleefully swatted them away or drew them closer without a hint of fear. Now….now the thought of someone touching me. Someone holding me down. I-can't—it makes it hard to breathe."

He couldn't look at her-couldn't see the crumpled expression on her face. He watched his fingers flex into the soft cushion of the couch.

"Contrary to belief, I am _someone_,not a boogeyman. And you're touching me." He made it sound like doing so was to commit sin. He scowled, forcing his lips together so not to let any more stupid words fall out.

"I know you are person with feelings—"

"I didn't—" he growled.

She stopped his denial with a hand on his chest. The coolness of her touch seeped through him.

"I didn't mean to imply you shouldn't feel, nor did I mean to use you. It's just with you, I don't feel the mind-choking terror I usually do."

"You did earlier."

"I did. But that wasn't about you."

"It never is." His words were bitter. He was bitter. She removed her hand, and the silence between them returned with a deafening roar. A silence that even the clatter of the television couldn't drown out.

"So you don't want to kiss me?" Her sad words were almost too soft to be heard over the explosions. Another building collapsed behind her, and he felt all his anger fall with it into his stomach and dissipate like insubstantial mist. He let his head fall back, exposing his throat to her. His eyes were hooded, and he knew that he looked bored. He was anything but. There was an animal prowling just beneath his skin, and it wanted to taste Bulma again.

"Just kissing?"

His voice was bedroom sexy and he was reward with a flicker of blue eyes. She fidgeted in his lap, and he was thankful she was settle more by his knees than up by his crotch.

"Just a little." She flashed him a look of flirtatious defiance that nearly stunned him. For a moment he knew, deep in his bones he was seeing a hint of the woman she had been before. "Why, haven't you the discipline?"

His eyes narrowed, and the animal howled at her challenge.

"I have the discipline, little female, just haven't the honor to spare."

Her hands that had been so primly folded in her lap began to toy with the labels of his shirt. She was bunching up the material in her hands, pulling it tight across his shoulders, and widening the gap across his abdomen. He paused to watch her for a moment, before gifting her with a wicked smirk.

"What does that mean?"

"You aren't Saiyan."

She scooted a little closer.

"So?"

She abandoned his shirt and instead poured her restless energy into tracing the lines and divots of his muscles across his stomach and chest. His head was still tilted back, and he could feel his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed. Her palms were refreshingly cool next to his hot skin.

"So, I shouldn't do this with you."

Her hands paused and he clenched his teeth to stop the curse word that twitched on the tip of his tongue.

"Have you never?"

His head snapped forward as he looked her in the eyes, affronted.

"Of course I have!"

"But there haven't been female Saiyans in a while."

He said nothing as she tilted her head inquisitively.

"So what you're saying is that you shouldn't do this with me."

Her hands withdrew, and he felt the familiar anger build up in his chest again. He should feel relief that he felt something, anything, but all he felt was pissed that she wasn't touching him.

"Yes," he spat.

"Aren't I pretty enough." Her lower lip was pouting again, and he really wanted to get his teeth on it.

"Don't fish, you know what the problem is."

She looked at him and he nearly drowned in her liquid blue eyes.

"What?"

He looked away, focusing on an unseen spot in the dark.

"You're broken."

She shifted, and she became precariously close to finding out that it neither mattered that she wasn't Saiyan or undamaged.

"I'm getting better. Help me to get better, Vegeta."

He shot her a look so fast, he nearly made himself dizzy. He knew he must be staring at her with open-mouth astonishment, but he couldn't help himself. No one had ever asked him for help before. Not real, fundamental help. Not only that, but her plea normally would have disgusted him, instead what he felt was a gut-wrenching need to do anything to take away the self-hate in her voice. As he drowned in the sadness in her eyes, he knew it wasn't just some fluke response to her tone, but it was her. It was everything about her. His throat was dry, and he could barely swallow.

"It's wrong." Vegeta was absolutely sure those were the hardest words he ever had to say.

She crinkled her nose.

"I never thought to hear those words from your mouth."

He winged a brow.

"Why? Because I'm a killer?"

She shifted uncomfortably on his lap.

"Well, yes."

"I do have standards. Wasn't that what you were trying to point out earlier today?"

"Yes, I suppose."

She was toying with the ends of his shirt again, and her mouth was twitching like she wanted to say something else, but didn't dare.

"But?" he prompted.

"But, I want very much to kiss you."

"What about all that nonsense about me being a good man?" He wanted to smack himself across the face, but he couldn't stop. He had to make absolutely certain she knew what she was getting into.

She cuddled a little closer, sensing victory. Her fingers were dancing across his abdomen and he wanted to arch himself just a little closer.

"You are good, but you are a whole lot bad too. I swear, Vegeta, you aren't taking advantage of me. It's just a little kissing."

He stared at her hard. She dipped her hands beneath his shirt to caress his chest and shoulders, her fingernails scraping over the puckered wound that only he could see. She was so soft, so gentle, and he thrived beneath her touch. She leaned closer, her lips hovering over his. She looked into his eyes without fear. He clamped his hands over the back of the couch, and brushed his lips over hers.

"Just a little kissing," he swore.


	10. Chapter 10

Disclaimer: I don't own or profit from DBZ.

A/N: Once again Kinky_Typo has made some fantastic fanart for us to enjoy based on a scene from the previous chapter. Please go view her beautiful art and leave some comments. She would love to hear from you all. .com/#/d2x1kux For fanfiction dot net fans her website is linked on my homepage.

MUST READ:

_Vengeance_ by Catgirl26. A well thought out A/U that has a detailed adventure packed plot and insightful relationships. The author has an excellent handle on all the character's personalities including the pervert Roshi, and has excellent dialogue. Though primarily a V/B get together it has some G/CC loveliness and some creepy doctor Gero action going on.

_You'll Be The Death Of Me_ by Niteryde. An excellent retelling of the three year get together. The author takes it slow and steady and allows the characters to develop themselves without a rehash of the same old events. Instead the author has fresh ideas and plunges to new emotional depths.

As I write this, I'm aware of my lack of attention to reviews. Don't be like me. Read and review their work. They deserve it.

MUST WATCH:

All can be found on Netflix.

_Australia_: Love knows no class boundaries. I didn't watch this movie when it originally came out in 2008 and I seriously regret it. Firstly, bare-chested Hugh Jackman, yum. Secondly, a sweeping epic romance reminiscent of the 1930's Casablanca-esque cinema. Interesting cinematography that some might find disconcerting, I still think it is a love story that deserves cuddle time on the couch with your lover and a bowl of popcorn.

_Satisfaction_. Love can't be bought, but it can be rented. An Australian show-time original this sexy series is a story of high-class call girls, their relationships, their friendship and their frisky fetishes.

_Thirsty_. Obsession is still love. As with most Korean movies you need persistence and determination to watch it all the way through. The payoff is that "wtf" feeling in the pit of your stomach. No sparkly vampires here.

_Jekyll_. Even true evil knows its soul mate. This British miniseries is awesome. A fresh retelling of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde this story had me riveted from beginning to end. Actor James Nesbitt's portrayal of "switching" personalities is chilling.

Chapter Ten

Bulma awoke to the world shifting beneath her. She was enveloped by warmth and a soft, soothing rumble. She licked her dry lips, her tongue flicking against salty male skin. She cracked her eyes, focusing first on the dancing pink elephant, then on the prancing unicorn. Her brow furled as she wondered what exactly passed for morning cartoons these days. She could tell they were singing, but sometime during the night the television must have been muted. She had never been more thankful.

Thinking of last night made her remember exactly whose warm, rumbling body she was using as a perch. She tilted her chin, sliding her cheek against Vegeta's smooth chest to peek up at him. His dark lashes were crested over his cheeks, his brow completely unlined. The look of peace on his face was compelling. The rumbling was more like the deep contented purr of a large cat rather than a snore, and its rhythmic vibrations were drugging. Her eyes fluttered, as she stretched her body over his, scraping her nails over his flat nipple as she unconsciously curled her hand.

The purring stopped and her eyes shot open. Vegeta was watching her with dark impenetrable eyes. The lines were back in his brow. She suddenly felt as if she had committed some great sin by daring to be in his presence. With measured movements, she sat up, sliding between his thighs. Surreptitiously, she whipped her mouth, afraid she may have drooled all over herself. He lay immobile and silent beneath her. He might as well been a rock for all the emotion he showed. Bulma turned away from his heavy stare, watching the dancing unicorn.

"I, um, going to go take a shower."

She carefully crawled over his leg, not wanting to inadvertently squish something soft. She performed a quick pat test as she was rising to make sure her clothing was covering all the right spots. Not that it shouldn't. It had all remained firmly in place last night, unlike Vegeta's shirt which was now tangled around her left foot, trying to bring her down. She kicked it away, glancing shyly over her shoulder at Vegeta who was still reclining on the couch, shirtless, his shorts bunched a little too high.

Her cheeks warmed looking at him, and she licked her kiss-swollen lips, trying to steal a lingering taste of him. Something fiery sparked in Vegeta's eyes as he watched the tip of her tongue. Reassured that everything was right in the world as she knew it, she flashed him a quirky smile before bouncing off to the guest bathroom to clean up.

Vegeta had been a perfect gentleman last night. His hands never left the couch as they kissed, exploring each other's likes and dislikes, tastes and sensations, for hours. She ran her hands over his hard, sculpted chest, memorizing every dip and curve, held his hand for comfort whenever she felt the slightest tensing of nervousness in her spine, and not once did he object. Not once did he try to force more. She would have been concerned that he was unaffected if hadn't been for the way he eagerly took the lead in their kisses and the hardness of his erection pressed between them. But not once did he indicate that he wanted more than she was willing to give.

If he was a normal man, and she a normal woman she might be tempted to call it love. But he was evil and she was damaged, and for them love was a broken thing discarded in the corner long ago.

She smiled into the spray, and threw her hands over her head, silently thanking the gods she found someone like Vegeta. She let the hot water run over her, and she was nearly done before she had a stray thought that someone might be watching. She dug up a hot pink summer dress from the back of her cramped closet in the guest bedroom. Since being resurrected she shunned bright, revealing garments, but today was a new day, and she was becoming a new woman.

By the time she entered the common area; Vegeta was showered and dressed. He was casually leaning against the counter, somehow making the act of munching on dry toast look sexy. She smiled brightly at him, unaware of how it affected him.

"You've taken too long. You'll have to eat in your office."

He brushed his fingers off, and took a determined step towards her. She held her hands up to ward him off, and he paused.

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, her hands fisting in front of her.

"I feel great!" she burst out. She looked at him smiling.

"Fantastic," Vegeta returned dryly.

"I think—I think today I'm going to spend some time with my mother."

Vegeta raised a dark, slashing brow, noting how much her determination cost her by the tense set of her shoulders.

"Yeah?"

"Yes." She nodded sharply.

As he turned to leave, she caught him by the arm. He looked at her expectantly, his muscles twitching with longing beneath her touch. She had trained his body well last night, he'd give her that. She had him purring beneath her like a pet kitten, and as angry as that thought made him, he found he wasn't all that opposed to doing it again.

"I'll see you tonight?" She was looking up at him from beneath her lashes, her cheeks a dusty pink. Against his express wishes his fingers brushed over the cheek that had lain against his chest so intimately this morning. She was as soft as silk and just as smooth. His fingers slid off the point of her chin. He nodded and walked away.

Bouncing a little Bulma made her way out the front door, and it wasn't until she was on the ground floor of the house that she began to feel nervous. She paused at the foot of the stairs and took a deep breath, wrangling her skittish thoughts and corralling them. She absolutely _knew_ that no one could get her here. She was safe in her home. She was safe beneath Vegeta's shadow. Her heart lighter than it had been in weeks she made her way towards the kitchen.

Bunny was humming lightly as she flipped another pancake. Mr. Briefs was in his lab, but without fail she was making him his breakfast. They had servants aplenty to attend to the task, but cooking for her family had always been the best part of her day. A housebot was nearby with a tray already decorated with a single rose and a glass of milk waiting for the addition of the pancakes before rolling off to deliver breakfast to the master of the household.

"Mama."

Bunny started, but years of expert hosting kept her hand steady as she slid the last cake onto the plate. The bot beeped and wheeled away. With a overflowing smile Bunny started towards Bulma, but the slight tensing of her daughter's frame pulled her up short. Bunny's hand tightened on the spatula as a deep sense of sadness and failure welled up inside her. Hiding her upset she patted her hair into place and reaffixed her quivering smile.

"Bulma dear, I'm so happy to see you. Pancakes?"

"That would be wonderful, Mama," Bulma chirped and quickly pulled out a seat. Bunny was awed at the visible change in her daughter. Her lips weren't drawn tight in fear and her eyes were no longer sunken and dull from sleeplessness. In fact, it looked like she had even put on a little weight. Bunny took it all in with a mother's eye and she knew that no matter what Mr. Briefs said about the sweet boy Vegeta, she would love him until the day she died for the change he wrought in Bulma.

Percolated, Bunny went into a stream of nonsensical chatter covering topics from celebrity mishaps to the new spring line as she bustled around the kitchen cooking breakfast for her daughter. As she slid a plate in front of Bulma in preparation for the golden deliciousness it was about to receive she took a chance and fingered Bulma's washed out tresses. When Bulma didn't flinch away, her heart sang.

"Baby, this is terrible."

Bulma sighed. "I know, Mom. It was all I could find under the sink."

Bunny drew back aghast. "You used some over the counter dye on your _hair?_"

Bulma rolled her eyes, quite used to her mother's beauty product snobbishness.

"I wasn't quite up to going to the salon."

"Oh, yes of course, dear."

Bunny hurried away, snatching up the phone as she went. She dialed as she flipped another pancake. With grace that rivaled any dancer, she skipped back to Bulma with the five cakes balanced on her spatula, and slid them onto her plate.

"Who you calling, Mom?"

"Francesca."

Bulma's fork fell to her plate with a clatter as panic gripped her tight around the throat.

"No, Mom. I can't. I can't go out."

Bunny pinned the phone to her ear with her shoulder, and wrapped both her hands around her daughter's frame, pulling her in so that her head rested against her stomach.

"There, there my sweet baby. You aren't going anywhere. We are the Briefs. We don't go to the world, the world comes to us." She smoothed her daughter's hair, absorbing her terrified tremors into her body. When the receptionist for Salon Estique answered she felt a wave of foreign authority wash though. This was how she could take care of her baby girl.

"Yes, this is Mrs. Briefs. I want to make an appointment for my daughter for an entire package. Massage, facial, mani, pedi and color." She fingered her daughter's hair. "And extensions. Tell Francesca that they absolutely must match my daughter's hue. She knows exactly the shade."

She stopped to listen, moving only slightly away as Bulma relaxed and dug into her food. She loved to see her girl with a healthy appetite.

"Within the hour," she replied to the receptionist. She poured Bulma some more milk. "Francesca and her people are to come here."

Bunny stiffened at the woman's replay. Bunny had always been a gracious woman. She had money and power only because she was blessed with a loving husband who was an absolute genius. She very rarely welded that power. And she never was rude.

"Listen carefully. Francesca _will be_ at my home within the hour or I will never frequent your establishment again, and I will make certain that none of my numerous acquaintances will either. So I suggest you put aside your so called rules and make it happen. I will expect your people shortly."

She hung up the phone and with a happy little tune began to pull out the makings for cupcakes. It seemed like a cupcake type of day.

"I love you, Mom."

Her tune missed a note as something sticky caught in her throat.

"I love you too, baby."

It was definitely a cupcake type of day.

It was late by the time Vegeta flew back from the Gravity Room. Late enough that the woman should already be asleep. His day of training had ultimately been frustrating. He hadn't been able to concentrate, his thoughts shifting between wondering what Bulma was doing and if she was alright to replying memories from the night before. He had liked it entirely too much.

Her kisses were sweet and innocent. Something he had never tasted before. And he definitely wanted to taste them again. Fuck, he wanted to do more than taste. He wanted to be inside her. He wanted to swallow her moans. He wanted to take his fucking hands _off_ the goddamn couch and slide them along her body. Vegeta cracked his head against the doorframe as he walked into the bathroom to shower. He gripped his hard cock through his shorts and squeezed, willing away his erection.

Therein lay the root of his problem. Last night he had fallen asleep with a woman in his arms. That in itself was an oddity. Vegeta never let his guard down with another living person. Hell, sometimes he was even suspicious of corpses. But he was a different man while around Bulma. He was changed. He had never modified himself for another person. Not for Frieza. Not for his father. No one. And here he was. Keeping his hands glued to the couch like a well-trained dog, begging for scraps.

He was a man of action. If he wanted something, he took it. Plain and simple. That was the way of things. If you weren't powerful enough to take it, then you didn't deserve it. But dealing with Bulma wasn't about power. It was about control. It was about discipline. It was about putting someone else's needs above your own. Simply put, Bulma wasn't ready. She wasn't ready for a man to be on top of her, to be inside her. To be anything other than patient. Vegeta wasn't that type of man. He wasn't what she needed. But for some reason she had chosen him. Which was mind-boggling in itself, but what was even more outrageous was that he was playing along. Instead of laying her down and taking what he wanted he was actually _worried_ that they had gone too far already. He was _worried_ about her welfare.

And that was completely unacceptable.

In the cold shower he rubbed out his erection with the cold methodicalness that made him a master on the battlefield. He didn't even allow himself to fantasize, relying only on physical stimulation. He briskly dried himself off and pulled on a pair of clean shorts. He left the balcony doors open and reclined on the bed without bothering to get beneath the blankets. He tucked one hand beneath his hand, his other lay motionless by his side, and concentrated on the sensation of the night breeze blowing across his still slightly damp chest.

He felt the door open more than heard. The air in the room shifted, then it stilled again as the door closed. He groaned deep inside of himself where want and need were born. He refused to move. He refused to play her game.

"Go away."

Instead she scampered across the room. He could hear her steps light as a doe's on the thick carpeting. She landed on the bed next to him, her body instantly finding its way to curl against his side. With a smooth motion he swept his prone arm in a long arch that washed her to the far edge of the bed. She grasped his hand with both her tiny ones, curling his knuckles beneath her chin. He could feel her swallow before she spoke.

"I slept for the first time last night without a single nightmare." When she spoke like that. So soft and quiet. Like she was afraid of provoking some imaginary monster, it made something clench in his guts. He couldn't tell if the feeling was anger or protectiveness. Anger he knew. Protectiveness he had never felt. The feeling in his stomach was something he never felt.

"Good for you, now go away.

"I just thought. You know. It would be nice to sleep again tonight."

Vegeta yanked his hand away. Wondering if her ability to cast spells on him lay in her touch. She seduced him with the softness of her skin and the fullness of her lips.

"No."

She rose up on her elbow. The moon was behind the world this night so the shadows were too deep to see, but he thought there might be something different about the outline of her body.

"Why?"

He never knew one word could contain so much. It was sadness, hurt and bewilderment. It was need and anxiety and everything that made his stomach clench.

With fierceness he rose up so he was on his elbow facing her. His hand was fisted in the sheets to stop himself from grabbing her and rolling her beneath him.

"Because I'm just a man, Bulma. I'm the greatest warrior the universe has ever known. The prince of a noble race. The son of ancient bloodlines. But I am just a man. A man that wants to roll you over, pin you down and fuck you until your brain goes slack. I'm not an honorable man. Fuck, I'm not even a man, and without my tail I'm not a Saiyan. I'm nothing."

He flung himself back and hid his eyes behind the crook of his arm. He felt Bulma creep closer, while keeping her distance.

"I think you are a wonderful man."

He groaned and this time he didn't bother to hid it. "You have no idea what you are talking about you, witless female. Just shut the fuck up and leave me in peace."

She didn't move and the silence descended between them. Vegeta relished the breeze tickling his chest.

"I don't know how to make you feel better," Bulma confessed to the darkness.

Vegeta sighed, feeling lost. The problem with Bulma is that she made him feel alive. Until now he had just been waiting to die. Plotting it in fact. But last night, while kissing her, something had been born inside him. A tiny flicker of interest. A wondering of what life might be like from here on out. In her own way Bulma had already made him feel better, and that made him feel so much worse.

"I don't need you to do anything for me."

"But you have done so much for me, Vegeta. Because of you I've gotten stronger every day. Every day I'm with you I conquer more of my fear. You have done that for me, and I am so thankful. I want to give you something in return."

Vegeta's throat tightened and he didn't have a reply. He had never done anything for anyone before. Neither selfishly or unselfishly. He had never been thanked before. This woman had wrangled him into a duty he hadn't wanted to perform and now she acted as if he had granted her some great life saving gift. He rubbed his hand over his face and rolled over so his back was to her.

"Just go to sleep."

He heard her exaltation of breath as she snuggled deeper into the bed. She didn't try to touch him, but he could feel her against his skin nonetheless.

"Sweet dreams, Vegeta."

With no ready reply on his tongue he stared out into the night.


	11. Chapter 11

Disclaimer: I don't own or profit from DBZ.

Fixation

Chapter Eleven

Bulma felt a light tugging on her scalp. Eyes closed she inhaled deeply, taking in the scents of freshly washed sheets mixed with virile maleness and hints of morning dew wafting in from the open balcony doors. If a moment could be frozen in perfect perfection this would be it. She stretched, sliding her body against the sculptured warmth of Vegeta. As the temperature dropped during the night she had crept her way across the bed to him, instinct to cleave to him beating at her even in her sleep.

She rubbed her cheek across his chest, slowly opening her eyes. Vegeta was watching her, twining her newly lengthened tresses around his fingers. He arched a black brow in question, tugging on her hair. As she smiled she could feel the unused muscles stretching in her cheeks, and she knew that she looked like the cat that got the cream.

"Extensions."

Her voice was morning husky, and his dark eyes ignited at the sound. When all he did was stare at her, she decided an elaboration was in order.

"They're sown in."

"To you skull?"

Bulma giggled at his appalled tone.

"No, silly. At the root. It will take about six weeks to grow out and by then my hair should be at a more manageable length."

"I see."

Bulma peered up at him.

"Do you like it?"

Vegeta shrugged, breaking away and looking out the balcony doors.

"Blue suits you better than black," he replied blandly.

Bulma frowned. The color of her extension weren't exactly the same hue as her natural hair, but it was close, so she supposed he paid her a complement. She sighed, and struggled to sit up, but found that her very expensive, waist-length, one-hundred percent natural fake hair was pinned under a very heavy male, and the last thing she wanted was to accidently rip it out. Vegeta grinned at her smugly, unmoving as she levered herself up onto an elbow. Once she was poised precariously over him, he cupped his palm around the back of her slender neck and pulled her down into a kiss.

She returned it eagerly, her lips and tongue longing for the taste that they had indulged in so recently. She memorized the texture and feel of him, and craved another lesson in the decadence of his mouth. She leaned on his chest, trying meld into him. Vegeta deepened the kiss, rising up so he could press her back onto the bed. The world tipped over and she gripped his shoulder, her nails digging into the meat of his arm as the air disappeared from her desperate lungs.

She felt Vegeta's sudden tension beneath her palm. He shifted his weight and her hair was free, then with an expert flip she was straddling him, their kiss unbroken. The room lightened around her, and the loss of air had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the hungry way Vegeta was devouring her mouth. His hands slid down her back, and over the crest of her ass. Her breasts, kept in check by a tight tank, swelled and the heat of his body made her nipples harden. He gripped her tight and arched his hips into hers, sliding her along bone-hard length of him. He found the hollow of her body with natural ease and pressed into her, only the material of their underwear keeping them apart. She whimpered into his mouth, her body hot and cold, and all shivery with want. She widened her thighs, pressing her knees into the mattress as she slid him against her slit, arousing herself on his hardness.

She arched her back, coming up for air as he lavished kisses along her neck and beneath her ear. His fingers curled around the backs of her thighs, sneaking beneath the hem of her panties. Her breasts were poised on his naked chest, nearly spilling out from her pink tank, her blue hair cascading around them. Outside she could hear bluebirds singing and the morning light was still soft with touches of gold. She wanted to live in this moment forever.

"Fuck."

Vegeta's growl was guttural and obscene in the bask of morning. He was rough as he pushed her away, abandoning her in the center of the ruffled bed. Vegeta was stalking towards the in-suite bathroom before she could right herself.

"Shower," he snarled, before he slammed the door.

Bulma stared at the closed door for some minutes before her slack mouth formed into a Cheshire smile. She bounced off the bed, pausing to take a deep breath of morning air at the balcony doors before prancing off to find a robe and brew some coffee.

Vegeta was still in the shower, and the strong aroma of coffee was heavy in the air when there was a knock at the front door. Bulma frowned, feeling a tremor of trepidation down her spine. She walked up to the door, stopping a good foot away.

"Who is it?"

"It's me, Max."

Bulma relaxed, but was sure to check the peep hole before undoing the numerous locks. When she opened the door the first thing she saw was the large rectangular package in his arms. She smiled and quirked a brow.

"For me?"

"From one of your numerous fans."

She laughed and motioned him inside. He brushed past her, placing the package on the table as she reengaged the locks.

"Help yourself to some coffee." She motioned to the pot as she eyed the package.

"Don't mind if I do." He ambled into the kitchen, pulling a mug from the cupboard.

Bulma picked up the package and shook it lightly, frowning when she heard small pieces clank together.

"What is it?"

"Well, I know what it isn't," Max replied while sipping his very black coffee. "It's not a bomb. It's been x-rayed, sniffed, and tested. The only thing it hasn't is been opened. Explain to me again why you have fans?"

Bulma flashed him a smile, while picking at the plain brown wrapper.

"Just because I'm not an entertainer doesn't mean I'm not famous. I'm rich and beautiful, that's all I need. I've often thought about capitalizing on my fame with a handbag line or maybe perfume, but I have more than enough money. What would I do with more?"

Max shook his head and shrugged.

"Sounds like sheer stupidity to me. Worshiping someone because they are the heiress to a hotel or whatever. Movie stars and musicians are bad enough, but that I can somewhat understand, but fawning over someone just 'cause their rich? And buying their handbags just because they've stamped their name on it?"

"Well, I do have impeccable taste." Bulma's reply was tart as she pulled off the rest of the paper.

"Speaking of which. Where's your latest fashion accessory?"

"If anything Vegeta is the ensemble and the rest of the universe is his accessory. And I would moderate your tone if I were you. He may be in the shower, but I'm sure he can hear you."

She pulled the lid off the box and stared down at the lazuli shards nestled innocuously in flounces of silver tissue paper.

"Of course, Ms. Briefs."

Bulma wavered on her feet. Max's voice was barely heard over the thunder in her ears. She staggered back, the box lid slipping from her numb fingers. Memories crashed painfully over her. A well-lit room. Delicate urns and vases in varying hues placed lovingly on their own shelves. A single empty pedestal in the center with its own spot light. His voice behind her, naming each vase. Telling her how much he loved every one of them, but how none of them were as special as her. Later, a dank basement, the only light at a rough hewn worktable. Him showing her the indigo glaze he would use on her death urn. On her bones.

Her memories faded, and her screams echoed in her ears. Her gaze sharpened with sudden attunement with the world around her. Vegeta was wet and naked, his strong hand wrapped around Max's throat as he pushed him to his knees. His back was to her, and she could see pale lines crisscrossing his flesh. The scars were old and barely visible, but in his rage they stood out starkly against his dark skin.

"Vegeta, stop."

She could barely find her voice, but Vegeta heard her. He shifted his gaze to her, his grip never lessoning on Max who was beginning to bloat.

"Max didn't do anything."

Vegeta dropped his hard stare to the box on the table. With a sneer of disgust, he threw Max away from him. Bulma watched as the battle-hard man bounced across the floor like discarded trash, before writhing to a stop in the corner.

Vegeta stalked over to the box, picking it up to examine it from all angles before deciding it was no threat. Bulma couldn't bear to watch him. Instead she focused on the spreading brown stain on the cream carpet where Max dropped his coffee. Vegeta was standing next to her, close but untouchable. He faced opposite of her, towards the bedroom. Already leaving her, before he had gone.

"It's my urn." Vegeta didn't look at her, and she didn't look at him. "The one he said he was going to make from my bones after I was dead."

Vegeta was quiet, and the only sound in the room was Max's recovering breaths. From her peripheral, she was aware of Vegeta shifting. Only her eyes moved as she glanced to the side. Vegeta was sneering at Max in a way that spoke of untold misery for the man who had failed to keep this inconvenience from his domain. _Some security guard_, his glare seemed to say, and the weight of his disdain was gunshot loud in the silent room.

Inconvenience. Is that what happened to her? An Inconvenience. Her kidnapping, her murder. Her inability to function like a human being. Was this who she was? Someone who was incapable of taking control? Was it possible for her to recover? To be strong? To stand up on her own, instead of laying down and dying. She shuddered, her crisscrossed arms barely keeping her insides in.

"I can do this." She spoke more to herself than anyone else, but Vegeta heard her. His heavy glare lifted from the choking man and settled on her. Unlike Max, she didn't feel the threat in his gaze. She felt surety. From it she drew confidence. A heartbeat passed, then Vegeta nodded curtly and disappeared into the bedroom.

Bulma knelt down to pick up the box lid, sliding it back into place. She stared at it for long moments, the black ink from the postmark swirling on the brown wrapping paper. She heard shuffling in the corner, and she drew herself up, pretending to be strong, when she knew was not. How could she be strong when she had no more bones?

"Max, call the detectives. I have something to say."


	12. Chapter 12

Disclaimer: I don't own or profit from DBZ.

A/N: I'm very sorry about the delay. The last half of my semester was a complete monster, and then as if my body knew I had no more obligations I became seriously ill. Though I'm not completely up to par, I've been dying to get this out to you guys. Thank you so much for your patience.

Fixation

Chapter Twelve

Vegeta didn't train. From the moment he left Bulma with the sharded remains of her bones until darkness had crept and crawled over everything bright with hope, he stood, staring sightlessly at the metal walls of his sanctuary, and remembered every vile, monstrous thing he had ever done. He was truly terrible. He had murdered men, women and children. He had torn them limb from limb, snapped their necks, beat them bloody, and burned them to ash. Screams had echoed around him in a cacophony of terror, the overture of his fearsomeness sung at every world he visited. Pleas for mercy had been laughed at before being ruthlessly crushed. Pity was ground to dust beneath his boot-heel. Such things were for the weak, and Vegeta had never been weak.

His strength wasn't something to be shared. It was for him and him alone. His men were expected to find their own for there was no safety in his shadow. Those kneeling before him, pleading to be saved were kicked aside like the weak wretches they were. Vegeta didn't use his strength for the betterment of others. His strength wasn't a shield for those who couldn't protect themselves. His strength was for war, for vengeance, for his own personal greatness. He felt no regret for how he lived his life.

A conscience was something you were born with. Either you had it or you didn't. It wasn't something that grew inside. It wasn't the product of spontaneous genesis. There was no such thing as a sudden moral impediment coalescing in the heretofore unused portion of the villain's brain right before he vanquished the hero. A conscience was imbued in every hero and absent in every villain. There was right and there was wrong. A conscience is not the tool to understand which was which, but the ability to moralize and empathize. A villain has no morality. A villain has no empathy.

Vegeta _did not_ care what happened to the woman. Beyond the fact that she had the most kissable lips he had ever felt in six galaxies she was nothing to him. Less than nothing. She had no strength, neither physically or mentally. She was one of the wretches to be kicked to the side. Her tears were invisible to him, her sobs mute. She was nothing more than a passing figment in the greatness that was him. And that was why, after twelve hours of staring at the wall, he couldn't even begin to fathom why he felt like ripping apart the city building by building until he found the fuck-head who had raped, tortured and murdered her.

Made an urn of her bones. Who does something like that? Vegeta's life was, as he would scoffingly say, experience-rich. He was confident that had met the worst of the worst in his life. Vegeta, himself made the top five on the list. But no one he had ever met, not even Frieza, had been that kind of sick. It drew his mind down paths that he didn't want to contemplate. He found himself wondering what her life had been like those last few weeks. How intense her suffering must have been. He found himself moralizing on the actions of the villain. Empathizing for the victim.

If he was doing this, then he was losing a fundamental part of himself. Prince Vegeta of Vegeta-sai was a survivor. He was ruthless. He was powerful. He did not tie himself to weaklings, and he did not protect the powerless. Vegeta was here for one reason. He needed to become strong enough to force Kakarot's hand. When, not if, but when he did so then either Kakarot would end him, and he would finally be able to find peace in Nurti's Feasting Hall or he would defeat Kakarot, thus becoming the most powerful Saiyan to ever live. He would restore honor to the house of Vegeta-sai, and obtain some measure of peace in his life. This goal did not have to be obtained on Earth. It could be done anywhere. It could be done in a place where there was no danger of feeling anything except duty.

Habit returned him to the suite for dinner. As he landed on the shadowy balcony he scanned the room, bile burning in his gut as he felt Max's ki. The man was a miserable failure of a guard, and if he had his way he would have fried him long ago. First he allowed his charge to be kidnapped and murdered then he allowed the madman to terrorize her from afar. Fuck, he brought the man's weapon, psychological as it may be, right to her. Vegeta stomped into the common area, his dark eyes sweeping over Bulma who sat on the couch tucked up next to her mother. His growl reverberated through the room. With underlying threat alone, Vegeta herded the cowed man towards the door. Behind him, he heard movement and the hollow between his shoulder blades twitched, but he didn't turn. He knew the women behind him were no threat.

Max cast desperate glances over Vegeta's shoulder, and although the man was taller than the Prince, his demeanor made him small. Slender fingers encircled his wrist, and he didn't have to look down to see who's they were.

"Don't, Vegeta. It wasn't his fault."

Vegeta shook her off with enough force to shove her back. He turned on her, his eyes blazing. His normally straight hair, ridged back like the hackles of a dog, and everyone in the room was aware of the white hot anger that was snapping from his fisted hands.

"I am not a dog for you to snap your fingers at. I do not fetch, lie down or attack on command for you. This male is in my territory and I told you before that he was never to be here again."

His blatant aggression towards Bulma had stiffened Max's spine, and he poised himself to attack, but at Vegeta's final words he seemed to lose some of his vigor. Bulma was staring at Vegeta open-mouthed, her previously dull eyes brightening.

"Vegeta, I—."

He flexed forward, and her words died in her throat. She didn't flinch away, and Vegeta's ivory fangs flashed under his grim smile.

"You disobeyed me, Bulma. How do you think we should deal with that?"

Bulma paled, and her chest rose. The air seemed to snap and hiss before falling deathly still.

"Oh my, a lover's spat," Bunny twittered as she pushed herself between the two. With the grace of a debutant she encircled Max's arm with her own. "We should leave them to it."

Max shot her a startled glance.

"Really, I don't think-."

"Come along, dear," she cajoled in a sing song voice, but her grip on the man was anything but coaxing.

Vegeta held Bulma's eyes until the door was shut, then he turned away with a sneer of disgust moving towards the kitchen where a pot of spaghetti awaited him.

"I think it's time I left." Not bothering with a plate, he scooped up the pot, and bracing his hips against the counter he dug in with a fork.

"No!" The force of her denial started them both. He paused, watching as she rushed up, stopping on the other side of the island that separated the kitchen from the common area.

"Please, Vegeta. You can't leave. I need you here."

Something tight and visceral clenched in his stomach at her words. No one had ever claimed to need him before. No one had ever reacted with such emotion at the thought of his leaving. He had to remind himself that it wasn't him she wanted, just his strength. She wanted to find protection in his shadow. He looked away from the shimmer in her eyes, and focused on his food.

"Save you tears, woman. Bawling won't stop me if I decide to leave."

She sniffed, and he had to physically resist the urge to look up. "So you haven't decided?"

He didn't answer her. Instead, he shoved forkfuls of tomato slathered noodles into his mouth, swallowing without tasting. She fluttered nervously across from him, like a bird unsettled in a gilded cage. Awkwardness stretched between them until Bulma was overcome with the need to fill the space.

"I spoke to the police. They took the broken urn and the box for testing. They might be able to find fingerprints or something."

The room was heavy with Vegeta's silence. Bulma couldn't bear to look at him, and focused on the countertop. She had stopped biting her nails, and they had grown in pink and healthy. She picked at the white grout of the counter near the edge.

"Now that they know he's an artist, they say it will help narrow their search, and if they find him then—."

Vegeta threw the pot into the sink with enough force the leftover spaghetti splattered onto the backsplash. The loud clatter made Bulma jump back. She clasped her hands to her chest, her big blue eyes widening in the pale oval of her face. Vegeta advanced until he raged across the counter from her. He vibrated with anger, his hair ridged back and the black tips quivered.

"Then what, Bulma? They will imprison him for the rest of his miserable life. Feed and water him. Give him clothes and a place to piss? He hunted you, tortured you, and slaughtered you like an animal. There is a time and a place for mercy. This is not it."

Tears, already rimmed in her eyes, overflowed her cheeks. With the sleeve of her sweatshirt, she roughly wiped them away, and huddled into herself with her shoulders hunched.

"That is our way, Vegeta. When someone commits a crime, they are punished."

"Punished? Living out their life in luxury is not punishment."

"Prison isn't luxurious. It's a hard place, full of violence and-."

Vegeta slashed his hand through the air cutting her off.

"I've explored the majority of your world, including your prisons, and I can assure you they are pleasure palaces compared to the everyday life that I've seen on other worlds. He will know no hardship there, and he will not pay for his crime against you."

Exasperated, she flung her hands up into the air. Her anger at Vegeta cleared away her misery and sorrow. There was no fear, only anger and a desire for satisfaction. "Well, what would you suggest, Vegeta? I can't kill him."

As soon as the words left her mouth, dread settled down around her shoulders. She met Vegeta's dark, fathomless eyes from across the room. His countenance was grim and unyielding. Nervousness strummed its way up her spine, and she had to clasp her arms across her chest to control the shivers that suddenly wracked her. The room was ghostly silent, and only her startled breathing could be heard. Slowly, she drew nearer to the island, close enough now that she could reach across it to touch Vegeta if she desired.

Their eyes still locked she whispered to him. "What is it like to kill someone?"

A heartbeat passed and his eyes dropped away, breaking their connection. He turned from her, and it seemed as if she could see a dark weight on his shoulders, folded across his back like a cloak of shadows, black feathers of sin.

Vegeta braced himself on the edge of the sink. He stared passed the white lace curtain of the tiny window into the night sky. The moon was fat and full. Pain echoed across the barren stretch of his soul. The first real emotion he had felt in a long time. Without his tail he could not answer the call of the pale moonlight, but he could still hear it, singing through his blood, curling through his gut. He wanted to shout and dance beneath her light, but it was gone from him forever. Just like everything else in this life. He was empty and alone.

"You're asking the wrong person, Bulma. I ceased to feel a long time ago. Killing is nothing more than an action. A bodily function, like pissing."

He heard her moving behind him, felt her tiny hand flutter against his back, near the vulnerability of his spine. Instead of stiffening, he felt something sweet and sad sweep through him. He was a villain and she was a victim. They weren't meant to share the same air. Their lives weren't meant to brush up against each other. But they did. And as a result he felt empathy.

"As long as he lives, you'll never be free of him. Even if your laughable law enforcement capture and imprison him, he will still be able to haunt you." He turned so he could face her. She didn't withdraw her hand, and it resettled over his heart. She looked up at him with blue eyes full of compassion, and he wondered how it was even possible. Her ability to care for others should have been burned away with her body in the heat of the monster's kiln, but somehow she retained it. Magically, she chose to share it with him, a person who did not deserve it. "He will continue to hunt you in your dreams."

His words, softly spoken, were sharp with truth. She dropped her gaze, and he was suddenly bereft.

"I wouldn't know how to go about it. He is too strong. Too…," she trailed off, her gaze centered on her hand that rested on his bare chest.

"Terrifying?" he finished for her. She nodded, her blue hair sweeping forward over her shoulder. Against his own volition he reached up to brush it back. The silky hair slid over the backs of his scarred knuckles. "He is nothing more than a human man. He is scared, weak and small. He preys on females because it is the only way he can feel powerful. You can defeat him. I will show you how, and I will be there with you."

Her bright blue eyes shot up to meet his gaze and he felt of sunburst of light shower over him. Her fingers curled over his chest, her nails lightly scraping over his sensitive skin.

"You'll come?" Her voice quivered with uncertainty. Gently he cupped her jaw in the palms of his hands. She rose up on her tiptoes, pulled towards the magnetism of his dark eyes. He nodded and she swallowed. "You'll stay?" His thumbs brushed the hollows of her cheeks, his lips hovering over hers. In his unbroken gaze she saw shadows in the depths of his eyes.

"Till the job is done," he whispered against her pink lips, before claiming them in a kiss. She sunk into the swirling darkness of it. Accepting the pact of murder made between them, sealed with a kiss.


	13. Chapter 13

Disclaimer: I don't own or profit from Dragon Ball Z.

Fixation

Chapter 13

Senior Detective Jon Wong hunched over his desk, dusting the ash from his cigarette off the open file in front of him. Sincerely Yours had been killing for five years, and not once had they ever gotten a lead. Now thanks to Bulma Briefs they were one step closer to catching him. Yet, that did nothing to alleviate the heavy weight of disappointment that rounded his shoulders. By years of experience he knew the broken pottery sent to the Briefs' residence wasn't likely to turn up anything useful. Sincerely Yours was too smart to be caught by a rookie mistake. Finding him was going to take good old fashioned police work and not some fancy smancy lab work.

Junior Detective Ray Chatree crossed the crowded squad room with quick, efficient strides. Four years out of the academy and the young man had climbed the ranks quickly. Life had yet to disappoint him often enough to kill his can do attitude. Detective Wong watched him, his jaundice eyes narrowing as the young man skipped up to him. Wong smoothed the wispy hairs over the balding plate of his scalp, grimacing at the greasy sensation of sweat on his palm. The florescent lights, burning cigarettes and packed bodies made the squad room overly warm and rank. He loosened his thin, straggly tie, tugging the shirt collar away from his reddening neck.

Detective Chatree dropped more files onto his desk, a pained look shadowing his young face. Wong briefly wondered if he was catching a glimpse of the man he would be in twenty-five years. It was like looking at himself through a time-warped mirror.

"The lab tested the shards and the box. There was plenty of DNA on the outside, but no hits in CODIS. More than likely it's from the people who handled the package during transport. The shards themselves were clean. He must have worn gloves when he handled them."

Wong picked up the files to give them a cursory look. "Sincerely Yours is too smart to leave something like that behind."

Chatree retained one file which he waved at his partner. "That may be, but he wasn't so careful when he was making the pot. Probably thought it would never leave his sick clutches. Forensics was able to find a single fingerprint imprinted on one of the shards. So far no matches have turned up in the local databases, and it's going to be several days before we hear something back from Interpol. You know how backed up they are."

Wong snatched the folder from Chatree's hands and leafed through it, a momentary twinge of excitement in his gut before it was quickly squashed by reality. "More than likely they won't find anything. This guy isn't in the system."

"You never know. These sickos have to start somewhere. He might have gotten popped for peeping when he was a kid."

Wong ignored the pup's less than insightful commentary. "Any leads from where the package was shipped?"

Chatree frowned at his senior partner, but didn't comment on his pessimism. Instead he fished out his pocket notepad and flipped through the pages. "It was shipped from the mail room of Nigiri Enterprises. The security is pretty lax in there. Anyone could have waltzed right in and dropped off the package to be mailed. Regardless, we are checking out all five hundred employees." Chatree grimaced at the thought of all the background checks he would have to read through in the next couple of days. "The pot itself was made from high temperature Grolleg porcelain which is readily available anywhere, however the glaze itself was unique. Debbie from forensics has to do some more research, but she's positive it was hand mixed using some sort of organic compound. She muttered something about exotic beetles. One other oddity she noted. The pottery was porous, structurally unsound almost like a sponge." Chatree closed his notebook with a defeated sigh. "Looks like it's going to be a couple of days before we can do anything."

Wong leaned back, taking a puff from his cigarette. As he exhaled he watched the lazy twine of smoke drift towards the blue painted ceiling.

"I guess we are going to have to do some good old fashioned pavement pounding."

Chatree stared at his partner aghast. He shoved his notes into the breast pocket of his pinstriped suit before responding. "And where are we going to canvas? Sincerely Yours' hunting ground is eight hundred miles. He could be anywhere."

Wong drew the folder he had been looking at towards him. Inside was a photo of the azure shards neatly nestled in the silver tissue paper.

"No. This guy is an artist. The real deal, not just a part-timer. He has to have his own set up and kilns aren't cheap. He's going to be part of the community."

"What community?"

Wong looked up at Chatree, shaking his head at just how young the kid really was.

"Our best bet is to ask around in Cobbler's Square."

"That's six square blocks of galleries and boutiques. And what are we supposed to say? Seen a guy carrying a head around?"

Wong took a leisurely puff off his cigarette. His rummy eyes running over the young pup.

"People are more intuitive than you think. There is no lab test in the word that compares to a person's gut feeling about someone. If we ask the right questions, they'll point us to him."

Chatree wilted and Wong smiled inwardly. Two days later, Chatree was still wilted, and Wong was still pleased at the man's misery. Although his misery was just as keen. His feet hurt, an old knee injury ached something fierce, and they weren't any closer to a lead. Chatree was just finishing up his twelfth phone call to the lab, in hopes they were closer to the results on the Interpol search and the organic component in the glaze. By the crushed expression on the young man's face, Wong deduced that they were not.

"This is a waste of time."

"Not really." Wong took a sip of the black coffee he had gotten at the last bakery they stopped at. Regardless of whether or not they came up with a lead, Wong did not count it as a loss. After all, he was able to find some of that pretty brick-a-brack his wife always gushed over. Even better, he had no occasion to give it to her. She would love that. Wong may personally feel that artists were just lay about hippies who needed to get a real job, but their shops made for great marriage counseling.

"How do you figure?"

"Like I said. It's a close knit community. By now he's heard that we are on to him."

"How is that going to help us?" Chatree flung his hand up in frustration. "Now he's just going to go into hiding."

Wong calmly looked at his partner from over the rim of his Styrofoam cup. "This man murdered Ms. Briefs and he is one of the few people in the world who knows it. When he realized she had been resurrected he didn't go into hiding. He chose to taunt her with the broken urn he created from her remains. He must know that eventually she's going to be able to identify him, and yet instead of running, he's toying her. He's hunting her again." Wong turned away to watch the couples as they toured the shops hand in hand. "He won't run. But he just might get sloppy."

He gulped the last of his coffee, tossing the cup into a rubbish bin before leading his partner into a small out of the way gallery. The cold air hit him instantly drying the rank sweat on his skin. He looked around at the abstract art hanging on the walls, sure that one piece would cost more than six months of his salary. He yanked on his tie, and slicked down the wispy black hairs on his sweat-shiny head. A young woman saw them from across the room. He noticed right off how her red lips pinched as she looked them over, rightly assessing their lack of funds. She plastered on a fake smile before walking over to them, her high heels clacking smartly on the painted mosaic floor.

When she was a few feet away, he flashed his badge, enjoying how her eyes widened.

"We would like to see the owner please."

Her demeanor instantly subservient, she nodded.

"Of course, wait here."

A few moments later a blowsy woman waltzed out from the back room. Her smile was radiant, enhancing her laugh lines, transforming her into an engaging rather than dower forty year old woman. She wore a bright yellow broom skirt topped with a gauzy green blouse that was nearly transparent in the right light. She floated to a stop in front of them, her grin becoming slightly hungry as she caught sight of Chatree. The young detective blushed and shifted nervously. Wong almost laughed aloud.

"My name is Diana. How can I help you gentlemen?" She directed her question at Wong, but her eyes flirted with the pup.

"We have some questions," Chatree answered forcefully, and Wong had to suppress the urge to sigh.

The gallery owner giggled like a debutante, her eyes inviting Wong to laugh with her. "Is he always so serious?"

"This is a serious matter," Chatree interceded.

Wong rolled his eyes. "Is there a place we can speak, Ma'am?"

"Of course." She motioned them towards the back and led them into a snug office. The antique rosewood desk was littered with crystals and small figurines. The hardback chair was cushioned with colorfully printed pillows and the hardwood floor was covered with braided rugs.

She sat behind the desk, smiling at them to follow suit. Wong sank into the plush armchair with a sigh of relief. Chatree eyed the second chair with disdain and choose to stand. Wong harrumphed at his youthful stupidity, while silently wishing for a footstool to rest his aching feet.

Diana pertly folded her hands on the desk, her eyes sparkling at the pup. "Now, what questions can I answer for you?"

Chatree jumped right in, and Wong was content to let him do so. The benefit of having an eager beaver partner is that while they were garnering all the attention it allowed him to sit back and watch reactions.

"We were wondering if you've come into contact with any artists who use this particular shade of blue? We are told that it's quite rare."

Chatree handed Diana a picture of one of the recovered shards. She took it gracefully, her smile slightly askew as she laid it down in front of her so she could put on a pair of glasses. Picking up the photo, she studied it carefully.

"Yes, the shade is unique; however I don't believe I've handled anything like it here."

Chatree sighed and took the photo back. Wong could see that he had already given up. "Have you noticed anyone peculiar hanging about. Someone not quite right?"

Diana quirked an ironic smile and Wong had to hide his own behind his hand.

"Peculiar how? Can you be more specific? After all, Sidney who owns the boutique down the street likes honey in her coffee, and I find that quite peculiar."

Chatree's upper lip curled. "Someone who's on the fringes of society. Noticed any real wack jobs lately?"

Diana's frown was like thunderclouds over the sun. "I don't judge people," she snapped.

Chatree stiffened.

"Detective," Wong barked. "Go get me some more coffee from that bakery we passed."

Chatree rounded on him, ready to argue, but he soon deflated when he saw the angry line of his superior's mouth. "Yes, sir."

The door closed behind him with a sharp clip. Wong waited a few heartbeats, before he shot Diana a wan smile.

"Pups, they don't know how good they got it."

Diana smiled back, her laugh lines crinkling. Encouraged, Wong leaned forward in his seat, applying his concerned, protective face that usually worked well with the ladies.

"His questions were inappropriate, but he wasn't trying to offend you. Have you heard of the serial killer Sincerely Yours?"

Diana paled a little, before nodding.

"We think he's an artist. Do you know someone who might unsettle you? Someone that you don't want to be alone with?"

Diana leaned back in her chair, her mouth set into a considering frown.

"No. I don't think I've met any artists like that. Of course, most of them are eccentric, but I wouldn't consider them dangerous."

"He wouldn't seem to be. He would be fairly unassuming. Quiet, possibly a little socially awkward around women. It might seem endearing. I'm a great believer in instinct though, especially female intuition. He wouldn't fool you. You would know something wasn't right."

Diana smiled, and tapped her finger on her chin before shaking her head.

Wong sighed and nodded. "Well thank you for your time, Ma'am."

"Diana, please." She rose with him, and he shook her hand.

"Here's my card. If you think of anything, call me."

She took it, placing in the top drawer of her desk.

He was about to open the door when she called out to him.

"Detective?"

He turned to face her. "Yes?"

"Does it have to be an artist?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well about a year ago a young man worked for me as a purchaser. He would go around to artists and assess their art or buy pottery collections to sell here in the gallery."

"And?"

She shifted, glancing away uneasily.

"Well, he was always very polite, but I always got the impression that he didn't enjoy the fact that he worked for a woman."

Wong nodded. "Unfortunately if that was our only criteria we would pull in half the country for questioning.

"Yes, that is unfortunate, only-."

"Yes?"

"I had to let him go."

"Why is that?"

"One day he unloaded a shipment of oil paintings for an unknown artist in the storeroom. Their content was…I don't usually judge, but as a woman I was uncomfortable."

"Do you know the artist's name?"

"No, but Mr. Genzo was very enamored with his work. He insisted we show it, and I refused. When he became insolent I had to fire him."

"Do you have the artwork still?"

"No, Mr. Genzo paid me and took the pieces with him."

"Well then, I suppose we'll have to pay Mr. Genzo a visit."

"Yes, of course. Let me get you his contact information."

"Thank you, Ma'am."

"Diana."

He nodded, his thoughts already on his new lead. This mystery artist could very well be Sincerely Yours. If Mr. Genzo could provide them with his address they just might finally catch the bastard.


	14. Chapter 14

Disclaimer: I don't own or profit from Dragon Ball Z.

Warning: Offensive language and sexual situations.

Fixation

Chapter Fourteen

Bulma followed Vegeta into the room they now shared by wordless agreement. The closer she was to him the more secure she felt, so regardless of how much he fought, she ended up next to him in bed every night and curled around him every morning. Their early morning make out sessions were growing steamier and she was awed at the sheer amount of control he exhibited while she explored his body at her leisure. The control he allowed her over his body, lent her a sense of empowerment in her own day to day life. Her nerves were steadier, her fears nearly abated. She even conceded to allow servants into their quarters to clean and cook for them, whereas before she could barely breathe for fear someone would sneak in. Of course, those servants were all female, by Vegeta's demand. Since Max's mistake, no male was to set foot in his liar without his express permission. Even the arrival of the morbid package hadn't affected her the same as it would have weeks ago. Her initial upset had been a setback, but it was also a doorway. A portal into the past she would rather not remember, but survival instinct bade to her to do so anyways. She needed to know her enemy if she wished to defeat him.

Vegeta's argument that she needed to face her own demons was sound, but implausible to her. She needed to remember the details so she could help the police to find the man who was killing innocent women. She certainly was no match for the monster one on one. She had no reason to be. She had Vegeta to protect her. That was the core concept of their uneasy alliance. She stayed close, and he wiped anyone who was a threat from the face of the Earth. This crusade he had suddenly taken up to show her how to defend herself was ludicrous. He showed her how to make a fist, and she knotted her hand beneath his, examining the texture of his palm wrapped around her knuckles, not the technique of throwing a punch. He showed her how to stand, swiveling her hips with his hands at her waist. She planted her heels just so she could feel the warmth of his body behind her. He attempted to train her, and she basked in his presence.

The man who murdered her was a monster, and she was no match for him, no matter how many drop kicks Vegeta attempted to teach her.

As Vegeta ducked into her huge walked in closet, she tugged on the underlining of her bright pink sports bra, waiting impatiently. He dragged out a white metal trunk decorated with gold symbols, the only thing that he had brought back with him from space. She stood on her tiptoes trying to see over his hunched shoulders, catching a glimpse of some shiny blue material before he slammed the lid closed.

He turned towards her and she stepped back, trying awkwardly to wipe the curiosity from her face. In his fist he held a pair of black satin elbow length gloves. Bulma cocked an eyebrow in mock concern. He ignored it and took her by the hand.

"These are training gloves," he explained as he fitted one over her hand. "They are given to young Saiyans who have trouble controlling their ki." He smoothed the elastic material from her wrist to elbow with one sweep of his palm. She shuddered at the electric sensation of his touch. "The conductive material of the glove draws a person's ki from their body to these sensors fitted over your knuckles."

Lined over her knuckles were black discs. They looked like plastic, but when she flexed her hand they flexed with her. She examined them closely while Vegeta drew on her other glove.

"When your hand is fisted, the ki is charged at your knuckles so when you strike your target they feel the full impact of your power."

Bulma chuckled, and Vegeta paused. She looked up from the gloves into his dark, expressionless eyes. Instantly she felt contrite.

"It's just-I have no ki," she explained.

"Are you dead?" Vegeta finished tugging on her glove and she winced at the harshness of his tone.

"What?"

"Are you dead? You certainly act like it the way you've entombed yourself in these rooms. Has that madman won? Has he murdered you yet again?"

Bulma stared up at him aghast, her blue eyes rounded in shock. Vegeta dropped her hand and roughly grabbed her by the shoulders to yank her closer. He dipped his head so they were nose to nose, eye to eye.

"Everything has ki. Plants, animals, hell even rocks. Ki is life. It courses through the universe. It connects us to everything in life, and mourns for us in death."

They stared at each other in silence, Bulma's skin tingling where they touched. She wanted to melt into him, to touch him, but he continued to refuse her, walking away each morning after a few exchanged kisses. He wanted her. She could see it past the coldness of his eyes to the smoldering heat underneath, and every day she wanted him more and more. She wanted to taste more than just his kisses. She wanted the safety and protection of his arms around her. She wanted to be as close to him as humanly possible and maybe just a fraction more if she could somehow manage it.

"That was beautiful, Vegeta."

He dropped her like she was rabid, turning away to face the closet. She shifted forward, placing her hand over the smooth skin of his naked back. She was shocked and pleased at the sight of the black satin against his bronze color. She wanted to draw her hand all the way down the line of his spine to the waistband of his training shorts. She wanted him to turn around and hold her again.

"No, really. That was very poetic."

He cocked his head so he could glance at her from over his shoulder, his disgust barely veiled under his dark lashes.

"The point, woman, is that you have ki. And you can use it against your enemy."

Bulma dropped her hand, frustrated. She spun away, skimming over the plush carpet with bare feet and plopping down on the huge king sized bed they shared.

"I don't know why you keep insisting on this Vegeta. I'm not a fighter. I could never defeat him."

Vegeta stalked over to her. He leaned down, placing his hands on the bed on either side of her hips. Instinctively she leaned back on her elbows, her eyes caught in his hypnotic gaze.

"The level of skill each of you have doesn't matter, because this won't be a fair fight."

"Clearly, something that monster has already proven the first time he killed me."

"He will never lay a hand on you again."

"How do you know?"

"Because I will be there." His words were a growl, and the usually banked fire in his eyes flamed to life.

Her pink lips parted as she stared up at him. "Vegeta," she whispered. She shifted her weight to one elbow so she could place a delicate hand on his shoulder. His dropped his eyes for a fraction of a second, and when they shifted back to hers, the fire was gone, replaced with the coldness of death.

He snatched her wrist and pulled her off the bed so she was standing in front of him. Roughly he positioned her into a fighting stance.

"Hit me," he demanded harshly.

"What? No." She balked, wide-eyed.

"Hit me."

"No! This is ridiculous, Vegeta," she shouted. She flung up her hands and tried to move away but he restrained her. "This is not going to help me. What is it that you want? Do you want me to beat him to death with my bare hands? What kind of monster do you _think_ I am?"

"Hit me and find out, Bulma," he shouted right back, making her flinch. "Hit me, you lazy, worthless bitch or lie down and die where you stand. Maybe he was right to murder you. You don't deserve to live."

"Fuck you, you fucking prick!"

Bulma balled up her fist like he had taught her and struck him square in the chest. Something close to electricity arced down her arm, making the tiny hair on her body stand on end. She felt it shoot from her knuckles and sizzle on contact with Vegeta. She paused, but Vegeta was relentless.

"Hit me again," he shouted into her face, shoving her back with one hand. She staggered, her blue eyes wild. She swung again, harder this time. The electricity danced down her arm with the force of the blow. Her entire body felt like a live wire. She could hear the harsh panting of her breath in her ears, and her vision contracted until all she saw was the target in front of her. She kept swinging as hard as she could. Vegeta moved with her, giving her the room she needed to connect with him without coming up too short and damaging her wrists.

Before she knew it they were in the living room. Sweat was pouring off her, and she could feel the tips of her hair, stick to her back with every move. Vegeta was standing at the arm of the couch, and Bulma was squared off with him. She paused, panting hard. She drew back her hand, and in her fist she could feel the ki fighting to be released. She stared at the man in front of her, but she didn't see Vegeta. She saw a demon. All the anger in her murdered soul roared to life in a wordless scream of rage.

"This will save you," Vegeta breathed.

The meaty thunk of her fist on his naked chest echoed in the room. To protect her from injury he feinted backwards, tumbling over the arm of the couch. Prone on his back he stared up at her. She stared back, her chest heaving under her tight bra.

"I am _not_ dead, Vegeta." She crouched down, her eyes slanted like a predatory animal's. Slowly she crawled over him, until she was seated on his lap, her hands planted on his shoulders to keep him down. "I want to feel alive again. Can you help with that?" She leaned in close, her lips hovering over his. "Can you help me to feel?" She slanted her mouth over his, her tongue boldly darting inside to taste him.

He groaned and wrapped his arms around her shoulders to pull her in, but she shook him off, biting his lower lip sharply. He yelped and reared up, rolling them off the couch onto the floor next to the heavy coffee table. Bulma landed on the plush carpeting, with Vegeta looming over her. Her eyes narrowed even more, her upper lip stretching over white teeth in a snarl. She struggled beneath him. Vegeta growled and had to fight down his natural instinct to subdue and dominate her. Instead he drew back, and with one hand he flipped the hardwood coffee table across the room, clearing a space for them on the floor. With a sneer of protest he rolled them over, lifting her over him.

She settled on his chest as if she was always meant to be there. She sat back like a queen on her dais, gazing down at him. His skin was a mess of red splotches where her ki had burned him, and in a moment of pity she leaned forward to swipe a long path with her tongue across the salty expanse of his chest, stopping to nip at his hardened nipple. He raised his hands to plunge into her hair, but she reared out of reach. Lightning fast her fist darted out, striking him in the chest, jolting Vegeta beneath her.

Vegeta's eyes widened in shock before narrowing in anger. Bulma expression melted into a look of contriteness, but something dark sparkled behind her blue eyes. With delicate grace she leaned forward to lather his abused flesh with open mouth kisses, her eyes still locked with his even as her hair fell down around her face. Vegeta watched her, his hands carefully fisted at his sides. Slowly she worked her way down, tenderly tending to his wounds with her lips and tongue, until she reached the line were his rigid abs disappeared beneath the hem of his shorts.

Her blue eyes turned feral again, as she tugged them down his hips. With hands still encased in satin she ran her palms up his thighs to his hard, jutting flesh. She wrapped her small hand around his cock, sliding up and down. As the engorged crown emerged from her fist, she leaned over and flicked it with the tip of her tongue. Vegeta groaned and bucked against her in demand. Perturbed, Bulma squeezed her hand around him, and grazed her teeth over the reddened tip. He stilled, his dark eyes watching her carefully.

Satisfied he was chastised, Bulma allowed her hand to loosen and fall lower. She slid the tip of him past her lips into her mouth where she rolled him around with her tongue. She played with him there, like a cat with a velvet mouse, until sweat shone on Vegeta's skin and agony creased his brow. She crawled up his body, watching his eyes as she shed her sports bra, shorts and panties.

Her breasts brushed over his chest, her ivory paleness contrasting sharply with the reddened bronze of his skin. He felt hot and tight, so completely unyielding to her softness, yet he laid prone beneath her, restrained only by her desire for him to be so, and his sheer force of will. Once her entire body was blanketed over his, she hovered her lips over his.

"Will you save me, Vegeta?"

She stared into his eyes, searching for a response, only seeing fire and damnation. He didn't reply, and she sighed against his mouth, before sinking into him for a kiss. His cock jumped between her thighs, seeking her wetness. She shifted forward, so his tip was pressed against her opening. She rocked back, taking him inside her, while their mouths were still locked together.

She felt his hand slid along the curve of her ass, his fingers tracing the underside of her cheek. She stopped rocking, lifting her mouth from his to look him in the eye.

"If you can't find the words to answer me, then you'll have to suffer for it, Prince Vegeta."

She sat back, once again a queen on her dais. He was lodged firmly inside her, a prisoner to her whims. She closed her eyes, and threw back her head. She rode him hard, feeling nothing but the pleasure she wrought from him. In him she drowned all her fear and insecurity, until all that was left was the overwhelming anger.

She felt Vegeta jolt beneath her. Heard his pained, pleasured cries. She allowed his hands on her thighs, as he kept her atop of him during her wild ride. She felt her knuckles impact on his chest over and over. Revealed in the dance of electricity over her skin. Felt it skitter over her belly, around her breasts to the tips of her nipples.

She fucked him. She beat him. She drowned in him. She overcame him.

"Harder," he growled, and she slammed her fist down as she came over his cock.

She exploded into a ball of blue electricity and coalesced into a white cloud. The cloud was clean and free and unencumbered with anger. Bulma felt saved, as she collapsed onto Vegeta's panting chest, and when he wrapped his arms around her she didn't struggle. She sank deeper into him.

She was limp and sated as he rolled her over, his body half covering hers. She was cradled in his arms, as he rocked gently inside her, keeping her in a lulled state of contentment. Lazily she opened her eyes to stare into Vegeta's. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, pulling him closer until she was completely beneath him. He pressed his lips against hers in a gentle closed mouth kiss, before withdrawing a fraction.

"I can and I will save you, Bulma," he whispered against her lips so quietly it could have been the wind.

She smiled and swallowed the words with a kiss.


	15. Chapter 15

Disclaimer: I don't own or profit from Dragon Ball Z.

Fixation

Chapter Fifteen

Wong took a sip of hot, black coffee from his silver thermos. He and Chatree were in the warehouse district of West City only a block away from the harbor. Seagulls argued loudly overhead and shouts of dockworkers carried on the salty, sea breeze.

"So, what do we know about Genzo?" Wong eyed the pup who quickly flipped through his notebook. He had to give some praise to the kid. Since they partnered up, Wong hadn't had to pick up a pencil or file a report once. The junior detective was meticulously detailed, right down to the ruler edge crease in his slacks. Wong was going to have to rumple him up soon though. If the pup's nose got buried too deep in details he would never lift his head long enough to get the full picture, and that could very well cost him his life.

"Sataro Genzo was born in 1972 right here in West City, the only child of Marcus and Anne Genzo. He resided primarily in boarding schools, occasionally coming home for the holidays. His father died when he was a toddler. His mother when he was thirteen. "

"How?

Chatree's head popped up. "Huh?"

"How did his parents die?"

"Oh." Chatree flipped through some more notes as they walked sedately through the near deserted street. On either side were long, half empty warehouses, sided with rusty aluminum and shingled with tar. "Well there's some speculation about that. Mr. Genzo was CEO of Hiroshi Corporation. At the time of his death he was being investigated for criminal misconduct. Someone broke into the family home and shot him."

"Robbery?"

Chatree shifted. "That's how it looked."

Wong gave his partner an expectant look.

"There was talk that it was a suicide and the widow staged the scene."

Wong grunted into his coffee, and continued walking. Chatree took it as an order to continued and flipped back to his original page.

"The mother tumbled over the balcony of their fifth story apartment."

"Apartment? I thought these were some well-to-do folks?"

"Well I couldn't access Genzo's financials without a warrant, but I was able to glean some information from old newspapers articles. It looks like after the father's death the family was left nearly penniless. This warehouse is the only piece of real estate left."

"Was it an accident?"

Chatree shot Wong a confused look that had the senior detective scowling.

"Her swan dive?" he barked.

Chatree jumped and scrambled through his papers.

"Her blood alcohol was 1.7." He paused as if expecting Wong to interject, but the older detective stayed silent.

"Genzo was present in the home at the time of the accident." Chatree added, but Wong barely glanced at him.

They walked up to the side entrance of the warehouse where Genzo resided. Chatree glanced at Wong, before pressing the intercom button.

"Yes?" A calm, disembodied voice floated from the plastic box.

"West City PD, Mr Genzo. We have some questions." Chatree's tone was professional as he spoke into the intercom.

"May I see your identification?"

The man's tone of superiority instantly set Wong's teeth on edge. With a concerted effort he forced all the tension from his body, becoming a slack-shouldered, over-worked, under-paid detective. Both Wong and Chatree held their badges up to the camera that was focused on the entrance. There was a moment of silence before the door buzzed open.

"Follow the hall to the freight elevator. I'm on the second floor."

"Both detectives made their way warily down the hall. Wong was proud of how the pup moved with cautious purpose. The kid had instinct that couldn't be taught. At the top of the elevator they were met by a slight middle aged man with thinning blonde hair and a pencil moustache. He was dressed in a fashionable black and white tux that was meticulously pressed.

"Gentleman, I hope this won't take long. I am escorting the mayor's wife to a gallery opening tonight. And no one keeps her waiting." When he spoke, his hands floated into the air, his long fingers dancing to the cadence of his words.

Chatree stepped forward, giving Wong the opportunity to stand back and assess their surroundings. The apartment had been squared out in the upper south west corner of the dilapidated warehouse. The furnishings were sheik and expensive, and from the inside it looked like any other upper west end penthouse, complete with a stunning view of the bay from an enlarged convex window that dominated the main room.

"About a year ago you were in the employ of Ms. Diana Cap. Could you tell us about that, sir?" Chatree spoke with his pencil poised over his notebook.

Genzo cast him an irritated look that Wong interpreted as annoyance at being addressed by a subordinate rather than the superior officer in the room.

"What is there to say? I purchased art for her quaint little gallery off Cobbler's Square."

"During that time you purchased art that Ms. Cap disapproved of and it eventually resulted in your dismissal."

Genzo's doughy faced turned a blotchy pink.

"I was not dismissed. I declined to work for that woman any longer."

"How's that?" Wong interjected.

"That woman is no _real_ artist. She's a pretender. When it became clear that her so called art was subpar she decided to open a gallery so she might criticize others." Genzo addressed himself with a flutter of fingers. "I am no snob, sirrah. I know exceptional art when I see it and I do not judge it's contents no matter how graphic. Art exists only for the sake of art. There is nothing else."

"Do you still have the artwork, sir?" Chatree barreled on without batting an eye at the man's tirade.

Genzo paused to collect himself, running his pale fingers through his blonde hair. "No, it's all been sold." He looked directly at Wong, his watery, blue eyes cold. "To a private party who declined to disclose their information."

"We are going to need the name and address of the artist."

"Why?"

"We have some questions for him."

"I didn't realize that being an artist was a crime now."

"It's not, but hindering an investigation is." Chatree's statement was without inflection, and it seemed to deflate Genzo.

"I see. Wait here, gentleman while I get you the information."

Wong watched the snow white gulls dip over the blue bay as he waited. When Genzo returned with an address card, Wong stepped in front of Chatree to accept it. Simultaneously he handed Genzo his thermos to hold. The man took it out of startled instinct. While Genzo held his coffee, Wong pocketed the information and riffled through his pockets for his own dog-eared card.

"If you remember anything else, like the buyer's name, please give us a call." Wong allowed a tight smile to ghost over his lips as he handed Genzo his card. He took back his thermos, gripping it haphazardly by the top.

"I'm sure I have nothing more for you gentlemen."

Genzo walked them to the elevator, watching with annoyed arrogance as they descended. Once outside the building, and away from the prying lens of the camera, Wong held out the empty thermos to his partner. Chatree quickly scooped it into an evidence bag.

"I didn't think a guy who escorts the mayor's wife to shindigs like gallery openings would be a suspect." Chatree sealed the bag as he spoke.

"Even God is a suspect until he's ruled out. Have the lab compare his prints to the one we have on file."

Chatree's phone rang. Wong took the time to light a cigarette while his partner answered it. He drew in the smoke, holding it in his lungs a moment before exhaling into the breeze. He heard his partner's sharp replies before he snapped his phone shut.

"That was the Captain. There's been another incident at the Brief's residence."

Wong watched the lazy spiral smoke disappear into the blue sky with regret.


	16. Chapter 16

Disclaimer: I don't own or profit from DBZ.

Fixation

Chapter Sixteen

Bulma smelled them before entering the bedroom. Sickly sweet, and rotten. Funeral Flowers. Long slender lilies. They would be white, like the ones laid on Nana's polished cherry wood coffin when Bulma's was six years old and just introduced to death.

She stopped cold inside the doorway. The room was doused in shadows, the heavy velvet curtains drawn tight over the balcony doors just as she preferred. The dark coverlet on the bed seemed to suck away all the ambient light like a black hole in the yawning vastness of space.

Slowly she crossed the room, drawn by the apparitional glow in the center of the bed. As she neared her pupils dilated, filtering in more light. She could see the fine detail of the waxy white petals dusted with golden pollen. The wide satin ribbon, the color of blood, tied around the long, verdant stems. The perfect meticulous loops of the bow.

She could hear the rush of her pulse in her ears, the harsh pant of her breath from her lips. Cold sweat broke out across her back and under her arms. A chill swept across her nape, stiffening her from head to heel. Her wide blue eyes darted around the room, but she was too drawn with fear to even turn her head.

Paralyzed, she frantically tried to galvanize her body. She screamed at her legs to move, for her feet to run, for her fists to rise up to defend her. Tears blurred her vision, and all she could see was the watery gleam of white lilies back dropped in darkness, like pale bloodless corpses in an abyss. She squeezed her eyes shut, feeling hot tears pearling at the upturned corners of her eyes before streaming down her cheeks.

She needed Vegeta. She needed her mother. She needed a shotgun, a missile launcher and a battalion of special forces. She needed to run! Her paralysis broke, and she spun on her heel, racing out of the secured suite. She flung herself into the hall, colliding hard with another body. They tangled together, slamming backwards with the force of Bulma's momentum. Burnt orange engulfed her, wrapping its way around her face until it stifled her. She screamed on the way down. A bloody, hair-raising scream that was heard on the lower floors of Capsule Corp.

The upstairs maid, sprung upon by a screaming banshee, joined her shouts of fright and struggled against her. The two small women, rolled around like cats in a bag, both so frightened that they nearly turned gray. Bulma detangled herself, her fingers slicing at the orange sheet the maid had been carrying with her. She crawled across the carpet like a dying man in a desert. The maid regained enough presence of mind to realize that it was her employer that ran into her, not some rabid animal. The woman quickly climbed to her feet, tucking her clothes about her, before slowly approaching Ms. Briefs who had managed to crawl under a side table, curling into a fetal position, while crying softly.

A storm of booted heels tromped down the hall, and the maid looked up to see the Head of Security and four of his men running towards them, semi-automatic rifles clenched to their chests. She immediately backed away, her arms raised in surrender.

"What happened?" Max barked.

The woman's mouth formed a small, red 'O', and she backed up into the wall.

"I—I don't know. I was bringing sheets for the guest room, when Ms. Briefs burst from her suite screaming her head off."

Max gave her a hard look that made her shiver. He glanced at his men.

"Call Detective Wong." He motioned to the others. "You two, search the suite."

The men nodded, and jumped to do his bidding. Max approached Bulma who was still under the table. Distantly he could hear the man he ordered to call the detective murmuring on the phone. The other men were calling out their clears as they moved through the rooms. Under it all, he could hear Bulma's soft whimpers of denial, and prayers to a God who wasn't listening. He knelt next to her, afraid that touching her would set her off even more.

"Bulma, can you hear me? Bulma?"

Her only response was to curl more tightly into herself.

"Oh my God."

The high-pitched shriek, sliced its way down Max's spine. He jerked back just in time to avoid getting bowled over by Mrs. Briefs. The usually superbly kept woman was frantic at the sight of her daughter. Max had only seen such raw pain etched on her face once before, the day she learned her daughter was dead.

"Bulma, baby. Come out. It's going to be alright. Mommy's here."

Bunny reached for her daughter, but Bulma shrank away, doing her best to sink into the carpet, to meld into the wall behind her.

Max had to look away when he saw the tears crest over Mrs. Briefs cheeks. The look of rejection on her fine porcelain features nearly broke him.

"Sir, it's clear."

He turned his attention to the men who were exiting the suite.

"Any sign of an intruder?"

"No, sir. Nothing looks disturbed. All the windows are locked and the front door hasn't been tampered with."

"What the fuck is going on here?"

Max and his men reflexively raised their rifles towards the booming, life-threatening sound. They collectively took a step back from the angry man who seemed to have appeared out of nowhere. Their tension only increased when suddenly the side table where Bulma was cowering exploded with her frantic movements to escape from under it. Mrs. Briefs was knocked onto her rear, and an expensive vase crashed to the ground and shattered. All this was ignored by the woman, who only moments ago had been nearly catatonic.

She raced down the hall, flinging herself onto Vegeta. He made no move to embrace her. Max thought it was noteworthy that he made no move to remove her either. Instead he continued to glare at the invading men over the top of her head. She sobbed into his chest, her fists clenched around his shirtfront to keep from collapsing.

"He's here, Vegeta. In our home. In our room."

At her words, Vegeta broke eye contact with Max. His cold eyes flickered down to the crown of her head, before glancing to their suite. He stilled for a moment. Max thought of the motionlessness of a tiger before springing on its prey. He held his breath, his sweaty palms tightening on his gun. Something inside him strummed before relaxing at the sight of Vegeta's facial feature freezing into remote disinterest. He turned his glare back to Max.

"There is no one in my room, woman. Now get off me."

His dismissal crushed her. She collapsed to her knees, her hands still clasped in his shirt. Max turned away at the sight of her degradation before a man he considered to be a monster.

"The flowers. He brought flowers."

Everyone could hear the horror in her words. Vegeta shook himself free from her grip, and Bunny rushed forward, the only one brave enough to invade the predator's space. As Bulma collapsed against her, Bunny shot Vegeta a look of pure disgust. It was enough to shake the hardened man to the core. He had been a ghost in this home long enough to understand the people in it. To know their ki's intimately, to gage their reactions, to know their fickle emotions. The one thing he thought he was certain of was that Bunny Briefs wasn't capable of anything deeper than a mixing bowl of emotion, but clearly his treatment of her daughter at that moment had earned her contempt.

It forced him to look back at Bulma who was supine in her mother's lap. Her eyes were open. Empty and glassy, staring sightlessly at the ceiling. Her beautiful blue eyes had been the very first thing he noticed about her. Her eyes were unique. Whether her hair was blue or black, short or long. If she was pale and underfed, or flushed in sexual pleasure, it was her eyes that held the secrets of who she was. And her eyes, at this moment, told him a story of a fear so great it was killing her on the inside.

The gapping emptiness inside him had slowly been filling up in the last few weeks. It was a loosely packed feeling, like the soil over a fresh grave. There was a sense of fullness, a never known feeling of inclusiveness. But as he looked into her dying eyes, he felt that fullness collapse inward, revealing the fissure just beneath the veneer.

Abruptly he turned on his heel, stalking into the suite he shared with Bulma. He moved through the common rooms quickly, heading for the bedroom. He didn't need artificial light, as his predatory eyes swept the darkened room. In the center of their bed was a bouquet of sweet-smelling flowers that made his nose crinkle in disgust. He picked them up by the stems, careful not to crush them. He brought them to his nose, allowing his eyes to drift shut. He forced his way through the cloying fragrance to the underlying scents. He stilled his core, shifting slowly and methodically through the odors until he found what he was looking for. He lifted his head, scenting the air like a wolf on the hunt. His eyes still closed he followed his nose out of the room and into the hall.

He tilted his head, narrowing in on the scent of the last person to handle the bouquet. His lids cracked, revealing polished onyx that glittered with something deadly. With terrible wrath, his eyes centered on the disheveled upstairs maid. Her dishwater hair had come undone from her neat working braid during her struggle with Bulma, and strands of it straggled over her eyes. She was brushing it away when she made eye contact with Vegeta. The depth of her sudden terror was immediately apparent. Her skin washed white, and her eyes bugged. In a flash of light, Vegeta crossed the room, pinning her to the wall. He brought the flowers, now crushed in his fist to her face. She barely took notice of them as she gaped up at him.

"You brought these into my room. Why?"

The woman's mouth dropped open, but it wasn't to speak. It was fear that made her muscles lax. She dangled in Vegeta's fist, her slack legs unable to take her weight. There was a sharp tang of urine in the air, and the armed guards shifted with an innate need to protect.

"If you stopped scaring the little girl witless, she might remember."

Vegeta shifted his gaze to the newcomers. An old man with his hands shoved into a rumpled overcoat stared fearlessly back. Beside him a fresh-shaven boy looked like he was about to pee himself as well, but that didn't stop him from wrapping his shaking fist around the butt of his glock.

"How about I do my job and ask the girl some questions and you can supervise," the old man suggested reasonably, without the slightest hint of derision.

Vegeta sneered. The odor of urine was stronger now, wafting up from under him. He glanced back at the woman, who had tears leaking down her pale face. With disgust he flung her towards the old man. The boy jumped forward to catch her, in an awkward clutch of skinny arms and legs. Without a second glance Vegeta moved away from the urine stain, positioning himself between all the men and the two women who huddled on the floor. Only Bunny noticed that he cast a quick glance at them before turning his back to face the men.

The young man guided the girl to one of the straight-back chairs that were placed strategically along the corridor, more for decoration than for use. Max told one of his men to fetch some water as Wong knelt before the girl. For a while, Wong just made soothing sounds, calming the girl while they waited for the water. Max's man returned, and forced the glass into the maid's hand. She took it, drinking greedily.

"There. Better now?" Wong asked calmly.

The girl nodded wanly as she shot a fearful glance at Vegeta.

"What's your name?"

"Melanie."

The girl's lower lip quivered as she spoke. She sat ramrod straight in the chair, her knobby knees pressed together more tightly than a Catholic school girl's. Wong thought she looked no more than twenty, and was probably much younger than that when it came to experience.

"That's a beautiful name."

She shot a grateful look at Wong, and relaxed a notch

"Thanks," she muttered.

"Are you the one who brought the flowers to Ms. Briefs?"

The girl's hands clenched in her lap, her boney fingers tangling the woolen fabric of her uniform. The black hemline rose over her knees. Wong could see a tiny band-aid where she cut herself shaving at the crease of her knee. It must be a primping habit she just started.

"Y-yes," she whispered. She locked her eyes on Wong, as if by looking at him she could escape Vegeta.

"And why did you do that?"

The girl worried her lower lip between her yellowish teeth. Some of her color was returning, and shallow pockmarks began to redden in her cheeks.

"Its okay. You can tell me. You aren't in any trouble."

There was a low rumbling growl, and the girl trembled. She scrunched her puffy face up, until she looked like a bloated fish on the end of a hook. Wong took her hand, patting it in a fatherly manner, until she calmed.

"My b-boyfriend," she gasped.

Wong cocked his head and smile encouragingly.

"Did he ask you to bring the flowers?"

She nodded empathically, her dishwater blonde hair flopping over her eyes.

"Why would he do that?"

"He's a huge fan!" she bubbled. "All he wanted to do was give Ms. Briefs a gift. I didn't think it would hurt. Ms. Briefs gets gifts all the time, and it was just flowers." Her pale gray eyes widened as she looked up at Wong. "Every girl likes flowers. Right?"

"Yes, of course," Wong agreed. "What's your boyfriend's name?"

"Ramon."

"Ramon, what?" Chatree interjected. Wong shot him a censoring look.

The girl stiffened, the corners of her wide mouth pulling down into a frown.

"I don't know," she whined.

"That's okay, Melanie. How long have you known, Ramon?"

"A week. We met at a coffee shop. We had the same order, can you believe it? He was so funny, we hit it off immediately. We spent the entire week together." She brightened at the memory.

Vegeta snorted.

"Do you know where he lives?"

She blushed.

"No, we stayed at my place."

Wong shifted, and Chatree rolled his eyes.

"Do you have a way to get a hold of him?"

"Yes!" She fished around in the pocket of her apron, pulling out a pink hello kitty phone. "His number is listed under 'Lover'."

"That's disgusting. No man would want an ugly cow like you."

Melanie deflated under Vegeta's harsh words. Wong plucked the phone from her limp fingers, handing it Chatree who immediately turned away to call the precinct.

Wong covered her cold hands with his warm ones.

"Don't listen to the bastard. You're a very beautiful girl." Wong made a mental note to call his daughter who was away at the university and tell her how proud he was of her, and to remind her that she was a beautiful woman that any man would be lucky to have.

There was a rumbled warning, but Wong ignored it. Chatree turned to catch his eye, and with a nod he indicated that the boyfriend's number was being traced.

"What does Ramon look like?"

She looked Wong in the eyes, and he could see something different about her. A cold sense of perception.

"He's handsome. Long dark hair, that's silky to the touch. Tall and broad shouldered. He has a foreign accent, Italian I think. He's handsome. Beautiful really." Her sad gray eyes skirted over to Vegeta. "Too beautiful for me."

Wong glanced at his partner. They shared a moment of understanding. The man Melanie was describing was definitely not Genzo. The moment was lost when Chatree turned away to get the results on the phone number trace.

Wong patted Melanie's hand, and looked pointedly at his friend. Max motioned for one of his men to take Melanie back to the office for further debriefing. He also ordered that the flowers be bagged up for the detectives to take with them.

Chatree hung up the phone, and everyone turned towards him expectantly. He cleared his throat at the sudden attention.

"The number belonged to a prepaid cell phone. The only calls were to and from Melanie. There is no gps to trace and it isn't pinging any towers."

Wong shoved his hands into the pockets of his overcoat.

"It's a dead end. The phone has been tossed by now."

Chatree nodded, looking morose.

Vegeta glared at the men in the hall before snorting in disgust. He turned on his heel, plucking Bulma from her mother's protesting arms. Cradling her, he strode into their suite and slammed the door behind them with finality.


	17. Chapter 17

Disclaimer: I don't own or profit from DBZ.

A/N: Well guys this story is coming to a close soon. I had no idea when I started that this story would actually be so long! I just wanted to thank everyone for their continued reading and support. Feel free to drop me any comments, and more importantly happy reading to all!

Fixation

Chapter Seventeen

Chatree subtly slowed his assent to accommodate the old man. He knew it was policy to pair young cops with older more seasoned detectives, but if the old man became anymore seasoned he would kick Crypt Keeper out of a job. The old man was wheezing like a blacksmith's bellows, and Chatree ticked off yet another reason why smoking was bad.

Merced Bruins, the artist they were tracking lived on the fourth floor of a five story walk up. The building looked like it had been slum housing when it was brand spanking new fifty years ago. Now the wooden floor was warped with sea salt, exposing rusty nail heads. Air conditioning was unheard of and there were no windows in the narrow spiral stairwell. Humidity and humanity combined to make a barely tolerable stench, that was better inhaled though the mouth than the nose. Chatree licked his lips, dreaming of the ice cold cola he would get later to wash the foul taste out of his mouth.

Wong made a disturbing noise that sounded suspiciously like a dying wombat. Chatree chanced a quick look over his shoulder. The old man's eyes were glued to the floor, his bent head revealing a glistening bald spot through the haphazard comb over of thin hair. His skin was glossy with sweat and his tie and shirt collar were undone. The tan overcoat that Chatree thought for sure the old man slept in was draped over his arm. He was leaning heavily on the banister, using it as leverage to haul himself up the next step.

"Eyes forward, pup."

Chatree whipped around, stubbing his toe on an exposed nail head. It creeped him out how the old man always seemed to know everything without having to look.

They were just passing the third story landing when a blood-curdling scream pierced the stale air. Chatree immediately bounded up the stairs, taking the steps two at a time. Behind him, he heard Wong call for him to wait, but he stubbornly ignored him. No way was someone going to die on his watch because he was paired with a geriatric.

His heart pounded in time with his steps. He crested the next landing and drew his glock, his palms sweaty. This is what he had trained for, what he had been waiting for, but now that the moment was here, all he could think about was that he shouldn't have had that third cup of coffee. The screaming was coming for the suspect's residence, and as he drew even with the door he had to steady his breathing.

"Police! Open up!"

He didn't wait for a response. He kicked open the door with such force that it tore off its hinges with a loud screech.

"Police!" he called, looming in the doorway.

The room smelled of oil paint and copper. Easels and paint cans littered the room, making it hard to see in the large cavernous space. On the floor not far from the door a naked man was struggling with something beneath him. There were red splashes everywhere. On the floor, on the man, on the white canvas next to him.

The man jerked around and Chatree zeroed in on the wild whites of his eyes amid his loose, dark hair. The man lurched to his feet, giving Chatree a clear view of the woman who had been prone beneath him. She was naked, her mass of blonde hair glued to her naked skin with red streaks of blood. The man shifted and Chatree saw a flash of light. In his hand the man held a wicked butcher knife, more than large enough to decapitate a woman if need be.

"Drop the weapon, and get down on the ground!"

Chatree hadn't been on the force for long. He had come from a stable family with a white collar background. There wasn't a lot in the world he had seen yet that disturbed him, but forty years from now and a life time of experience later, he would remember the grin on Merced Bruins face, and he would shiver in revulsion.

The terrorize woman was screaming, still caught in a fight of life and death. She kicked out, her bare heel connecting hard with her assaulter's thigh. The man feinted to the side. Chatree fired, the shot going wide as the man ducked behind some canvas covered easels. Chatree felt the adrenalin rushing in his blood, the sweat on his brow dripping hot into his eyes. He moved further into the room, sweeping the barrel of his gun as he ducked in and out of the nooks and crannies that Merced could be hiding. The room was cluttered, too many obstructions to be thorough, too many places to be ambushed.

Chatree heard a clatter behind him, and he pivoted in time to see broad naked shoulders dart through the exit. He sprang after him, galvanized when he heard shots fired. He raced through the door way and skidded to a stop. The suspect was face down on the landing, a pool of blood spreading beneath him. Wong was kicking away the knife, his .38 revolver still drawn.

Chatree lowered his weapon as Wong checked the man's pulse. The older detective nodded it was clear and they both holstered their weapons. Wong's dark eyes centered on Chatree, and the young detective felt his gut clench.

"Back up and EMT's are on their way."

Wong brushed passed him, hurrying towards the whimpering woman. A quick survey showed only shallow cuts, nothing deadly, but she would be scarred for life. Wong pulled a paint splattered canvas off an easel to cover the shivering woman. Beneath the canvas was a grotesque painting that made both the men pause. The victim had been the model. She was painted upside down on a cross, her wrists and ankles bound with barbed wire, her blonde hair cascading to the ground. He throat was cut and blood pooled on the obsidian floor beneath her.

"Art," Wong muttered, while tucking the canvas around the woman. She clutched at him, burying herself in his chest.

Outside Chatree could hear the sirens of backup arriving. He shifted his weight, shoving his now shaking hands into his pockets. The adrenalin was wearing off; leaving a dead taste in his mouth that only hard alcohol could drive away. Wong looked him over with a brief sweep of his eyes that made him feel vaguely ashamed.

"You missed your shot." Wong said. He nodded towards the thick wood pillar that supported the center of the vaulted room. The dark painted wood was bleeding pale yellow innards from Chatree's bullet. The young detective's cheeks burned.

"You're lucky that bullet didn't keep going through these shoddy walls, and kill some kid two blocks away."

Chatree opened his to mouth to protest, but he quickly closed it. Wong was right. He had became a cop to protect and serve, and part of that was making sure that his actions, no matter what the situation, didn't adversely affect the public. Dead kids were definitely adverse.

"I expect to see you on the shooting range with me every morning for the next month. And afterwards we are going to spend an hour each day going over the handbook, especially the chapter on waiting for backup."

"Sir," Chatree protested.

The EMT's arrived in a rush, setting down their kits and taking the woman from Wong's arms. They were quick to asses her wounds, to put pressure on the worst bleeders, and cover her with a warm blanket. Wong skirted around the sudden activity and stepped right into Chatree's space. He grabbed the young man's upper arm with surprising strength, making Chatree wince slightly, but he didn't pull away. He locked eyes with the older man, seeing something he never saw before. Dedication.

"You are my responsibility, Chatree. Everything you do reflects on me. You are one of the most capable detectives I've seen in a long time, but if you rush in, if you fuck up, if you make me regret choosing you as a partner, I will see that you are sacked faster than you can spit on my grave when I finally keel over. Do you understand me, pup?"

"Yes, sir."

Wong held his gaze for a few seconds longer, before nodding and letting go. The older man moved a few steps away, his steady hand reaching in his pocket for a pack of cigarettes. Chatree was still shaking slightly as he moved next to him. He watched the detective as he scanned the room, his lips pursed in thought.

"Bruins matches the description given by the maid. Good looking, dark hair. Might be Italian."

Wong nodded, while taking a drag from his cigarette. Slowly they circled the room, revealing pieces of art, each more disturbing than the last, always featuring women in different positions of defilement.

"What are you thinking?" Chatree finally asked.

Wong made his way to the window. It was covered by a gray blanket, making the air inside the loft seem fuzzy. He yanked it down, and yellow motes sailed away on cigarette smoke. Outside all he could see was a wall of red brick. It was soot stained and covered with cracks. It was old and worn out, yet fundamentally part of the city, just like him. It had stories to tell of anger and hate of love and joy, but that old wall couldn't tell him what it had seen. What it knew.

"That you have paperwork to process."

Chatree frowned at the old man's back, before shifting his gaze over his shoulder. All he saw was the wall of the next building. It certainly wasn't a view worth staring at so intensely. With a shrug he turned, and began giving orders to the arriving officers to start their search of the premises, while Wong gazed out the window.


	18. Chapter 18

Disclaimer: I don't own or profit from DBZ.

Warning: Sex. Vegeta is going to at the pinnacle of his asshole self. There will be mention of some of the torture that Bulma went though while with Sincerely Yours.

A/N: I'm sorry it took so long to get this up, but fanfiction dot net wouldn't let me upload for a week and a half.

FIXATION

Chapter Eighteen

After snatching Bulma off the floor, and slamming the door, he passed through the common room and into the bedroom. He ignored the small shaking woman in his arms as he ripped away the heavy velvet curtain. The sky outside was painted orange and red, flickering across Bulma's pale face like battle fire. He opened the balcony doors, breathing in fresh air and flushing the sweet scent of death from his lungs. He cleared the banister in one leap, landing with cat's grace on the lawn three stories below. He strode into the gravity room, listening for the door to seal behind him.

It was sunset and Vegeta had already finished for the day, but he knew that Bulma would feel safest in his old bunk beneath the gravity chamber, especially now that the sanctuary of their rooms had been breached. He placed her on the narrow cot, watching as she curled up like a dying flower. Wordlessly he left her, ascending the industrial metal steps to train above.

Vegeta did not like how Bulma made him feel. Attraction was a reasonable biological response, but the instinct he felt to tend to her state of mind made him sick. The sense of responsibility he felt for her, the desire to make her secure. These things were falsehoods. He was not a reliable man. He was not someone you leaned on in times of crisis. Weakness, any sign of it, either in himself or other's brought out the killer in him. Bulma was weakness incarnate, and he was at a loss to understand why he hadn't put her out of her misery. She was wounded animal, hemorrhaging blood in shark infested waters. His restraint while in her presence could only be interpreted as compassion and that was the most insidious of weaknesses. It wore you down, drew you out, and lowered your defenses. Compassion got you stabbed in the back.

Yet there was a strength to Bulma that he couldn't define. She wasn't physically or even mentally strong, but she had a spirit he had never witnessed. A flame that refused to be stifled. Vegeta had spent a lifetime in the presence of the soulless. Creatures that drifted through life just waiting for the killing blow so they could find a tiny shred of peace. Even Vegeta in his own way was on life support. Only his need for vengeance kept his spirit alive. With that gone he was just as soulless.

Regardless of her fire, staying with Bulma was becoming less of an option. She needed him in a deep primal way that he couldn't fathom. She just didn't need him to protect her; she needed him to be near, to be a part of her life. Vegeta had never been needed before. It made him feel dirty. As if he was living a lie, and for all his sins, Vegeta had always been brutally honest, even when it earned him a beating.

There was one fundamental belief that Vegeta held dear. Need was weakness. The need for food, water, sleep. These things could be stripped from you and the result was a painful death. So it was clear that all needs, except those most necessary should be done away with. Brutally and without remorse. Bulma's need for him was not necessary and it should be eliminated.

The sun was breaking the horizon by the time Vegeta descended to the bowels of the ship. Bulma was curled up on the single wide bunk, her eyes creased tight with sleep. She looked like a small child who was trying to hide by keeping their eyes closed. He passed by her, stripping his clothing as he stepped into the tiny bathroom. He turned on the shower, frowning at the loud groan of the pipes. He stepped under the hot spray, barely feeling the massaging beads, as he leaned his forehead against the cool tile.

He stiffened when he heard Bulma's bare footsteps on the cement floor. She slipped in behind him, wrapping her arms around his wet chest. She laid her cheek between the hollow of his shoulder blades and with every breath she took he could feel her soft breasts brush either side of his spine. His cock became painfully hard at just the sensation of her around him.

"Get the fuck away from me," he growled fiercely without bothering to shake her off.

Her body flutter around him, like the flight of tiny butterflies, before she grew rigid with stubbornness.

"Vegeta," she started softly.

"I don't fucking care," he cut her off. "I don't feel like playing nursemaid. I'm tired of having to be _sensitive_ to your situation, so you had better run away before you get fucked."

He felt her withdraw, and cold air swept across his naked back. Before he could shiver, she was back, pressing her warm, wet body even tighter to his. Her nails scrapped along his rigid belly, curling across his flesh in an invisible brand.

"I don't need you to be sensitive, Vegeta. I just need you."

His hand fisted, flexing his muscles up his forearm to his thick bicep and along his back. She turned her face, and nibbled along the ridge of his shoulder blade, while her hand drifted down to wrap around his thick cock.

He twisted in her arms, pinning her up against the wall. Her long legs wound around his waist in instinct as he nestled in close to her heat. He perched one leg on the ledge, so he could balance her on his knee while capturing her hands above her head. She visibly tensed, her lush mouth becoming strained. He smiled at her discomfort, a predatory twisting of his lips designed to frighten her even more.

"What's the matter, Bulma? You don't like being held down?"

"You know I don't." Her pulse fluttered wildly at her throat, but she made no move to struggle against him. Instead she hung passively in his grasp, trusting him in a way that only served to disgust him. The problem was he wasn't sure who he was more disgusted with, her or himself.

"You shouldn't trust me. And you sure as hell shouldn't need me. You need to make yourself strong. You must rely only on yourself."

Her lips parted, and he couldn't help but to drop his gaze to her rapidly rising and falling chest. Her breasts were slicked with water, her nipples hard and rosy. She swallowed and cocked her head to the side, drawing his gaze back up to her eyes. They were dark with desire and understanding.

"I'm sorry, Vegeta. I shouldn't have broken down like I did. It's just a minor setback. I'm better now. Stronger. I promise I can be stronger."

Vegeta's mouth tightened. Keeping her wrists pinned he drew one hand down her arm, sliding with sensual slowness over her water-slicked skin. He cupped his palm over her breast, watching her face carefully as he twisted her nipple. She flinched, and fear fluttered across her porcelain features.

"Strong, huh? How strong do you think you are? Strong enough to fuck? Only this time I'll hold you down, keep you pinned helpless beneath me. How does that sound, Bulma? Are you strong enough yet not to be in control? To be used like he used you?"

Bulma's eyes narrowed, and a fury like he had never seen before hardened her features.

"You have no idea what he did to me, Vegeta," she spat. With the suddenness of a springing lioness she sunk her teeth into his lower lip. He reared back, but she held on, her thighs tight around his waist. He crashed into the wall, the shower spigot jabbing him painfully in the back. Her hands free she tunneled her fingers into his hair, wrapping the wet thick strands around her fists.

He grabbed her by the hair, yanking her back by her scalp, but he quickly released her, when he felt her hands slide towards his face, her thumbs poised to dig out his eyes. He captured her wrists and thrust her back with more force than he needed. She ripped free, drawing blood with her sharp teeth. She hit the far wall, sliding to the bottom of the tub with a groan. She looked up at him, her blue eyes dark with hate.

"I might not be strong," she gasped, "but I'll fight until the bloody end. I'll never be a victim again. Do you hear me, asshole?"

He stood over her, his legs spread for balance. He was wiping the blood from his lip when he saw her draw back her foot. He leapt forward before she could kick him in the crotch, reaching down to grab her by the calf and wrist. He hauled her up, spinning around so she was shoved face first into the cold tile. She struggled against him, but he held her prisoner with the length of his body.

"No more," he ground out. His breath feathered hot by her ear, and his cock thrust hungrily between her thighs. "No more unless you want it," he whispered.

She stilled her struggles, her breath misting the tile. Anger coiled her body, making her blood boil. Beneath that was the awareness of Vegeta's naked skin pressed along the expanse of her back and buttocks. She felt the bone hard length of him wedged between her thighs, the crown nudging her entrance. That awareness turned the hot anger in her blood into liquid fire.

"Say that I'm strong. That I'm a fighter."

Vegeta snorted in her ear, and trailed his fingers along her side, brushing the outside of her breast, down her ribs, until they fitted into the hollow of her hipbone.

"You're nothing more than a human."

Her hands fisted on the tile, and she pushed away with all her might. She barely moved an inch off the wall, and his cock furrowed deeper.

"I'm strong, admit it. I'm not broken!" The desperation in her voice, made him tighten his fingers on her hip. He dipped his face, until his mouth brushed the ridge of her neck and shoulder.

"You're still broken." Her body grew more rigid with anger, become less and less welcoming to him. He closed his eyes. The instinct to crush the need for him out of her was so strong he could feel it in the pulse behind his eyelids. She needed this vindication from him, and it made him sick. It made him sick, because a part of him that never existed before meeting her wanted to give it. He wanted to make her whole, even if that meant nurturing her need for him.

"But you are getting stronger every day," he whispered to her, his eyes still closed.

Her body went lax beneath his as all the anger inside her seeped out and down the drain with the water. They stayed like that for some time, her soft and plaint beneath him, while he rested his head against the crook of her neck.

She inhaled and it seemed to fill them both.

"I don't need you to be sensitive, Vegeta. But I do need you. I trust you to be in control. I trust you not to hurt me." She thrust back into as she spoke, urging him closer.

He gathered her wet hair in his fist, turning her face to the side so he could see her profile. The hand on her hip, slid to the inside of her thigh, so he could open her up further.

"You won't be able to fight me like this." He nudged the crown of his cock into her narrow channel. He felt her muscles flutter against his intrusion.

"I know."

She unknotted her hands, and spread her fingers against the tile. She widened her stance, cocking her hips back towards him. It was all the invitation he needed. He surged into her, burying himself to the hilt before withdrawing to plow into her again. She moaned into the wall, lifting herself up on her tiptoes so he could bury himself deeper inside her. His fingers played with her swollen clit, inciting more soft cries from her.

She felt so good, and Vegeta thought for a moment he was on the verge of dying. There was a sense of urgency that strummed in his veins, tightening the skin across his body. This was need in the flesh. He needed to be inside her, fucking her, drowning in her. He needed to hear her cry out, to feel her tightened around him. This was a need that couldn't be purged, and for once he didn't give a flying fuck. All that mattered was coming inside her.

Light starburst behind his closed eyelids, and he heard her cries of release twine with his hoarse growls. She shivered around him, sucking him in deeper with his release. He felt the wall shudder beneath his hand and a small part of his mind warned him to ease up before he broke something other than the tile with his monumental strength.

Slowly awareness gathered around him. He was still deep inside Bulma as they panted as one. The water from the facet had grown icy, and she shivered slightly beneath him. He pulled away, nearly buckling to his knees at the sensation of sliding away from her warmth. He drew her away from the wall, picking her up bridal style, and taking her to the single wide bed where they curled up together to sleep.


	19. Chapter 19

Disclaimer: I don't own or profit from DBZ

FIXATION

Chapter Nineteen

Bulma sat on the edge of the bed wearing only one of Vegeta's blue muscle Tee that gaped revealingly under the arms. She was brushing her hair with long, smooth strokes with a paddle brush she had brought downstairs some weeks ago. They had slept till early afternoon and her wet hair had dried into a nearly unmanageable mess.

In a rare moment of vulnerability Vegeta was sprawled face down on the bed, the cotton sheet bunched around his hips. The off-white contrasted sharply with the caramel tinted expanse of his bare back. His face was turned away, but she knew he was awake. Nothing moved within proximity of him, even her, without sending warning shrieks through him. She could see it in the tightening of his muscles.

She steadily brushed her hair while she stared at the gray-metal wall willing her mind back to a place she had steadfastly refused to go for months.

"He brought me a single white lily for every day he kept me," she began. Vegeta's thigh muscles clenched against her hip, but he didn't move. She couldn't find the strength to glance back at him. "He placed them in a cheap glass vase beside me. You know the kind that comes with flowers from the supermarket. The first lilies were dying by the time he brought the last one. Sixteen in all.

The stench was unbearable. So sickly sweet it made me gag. I died with that scent in my nose. It was stronger than the blood.

The day he took me upstairs to show me his trophies I was actually happy. I thought for sure I would escape the smell even if it was just for a little while. The upstairs was beautiful with a big bay window that overlooked the ocean. There was blue sky and sunshine everywhere and I could taste freedom in my mouth, but when I inhaled instead of sea salt the stench was there. In front of the window was a bouquet of lilies in a gold gilt crystal vase." Bulma chuckled softly.

"I obsessed over that vase for days. I actually screamed at him that he must not think I was so fantastically special if my lilies only got a cheap vase while those sat in an eight thousand dollar one."

She quieted, her face falling. She smoothed her hand down her slender neck and it sounded as if her next words had to fight their way out of her throat.

"He laughed and told me not to be petty. Then he cut me and used on of the lilies to paint the blood up and down my body."

The silence that fell upon the room was heavy and soft. It felt as if eternity passed between heartbeats. Bulma sat, staring sightless at the gray wall, Vegeta motionless beside her.

"You saw the outside?"

Bulma was startled from her solitude by Vegeta's rough voice. She twisted to look behind her. He was still motionless, turned away from her, but the tension in him was palpable.

Bulma dropped her gaze away, studying her memories.

"Well yes, I could see the East Bay Harbor from his window."

"Which side of the bay were you on?" Vegeta sat up next to her, his sheet falling away. His eyes were intense and she found herself drowning in them, drowning in the memories she saw in the obsidian reflection of his gaze.

"Well it's all residential on the north slope, so it had to be the south side. All the buildings around were one story warehouses, but we were in a two story loft."

"Are you sure it was a loft and not a warehouse?"

Bulma bit her lip. "Well the upstairs was pretty posh, but the downstairs was dank and cavernous. I suppose it could have been a warehouse."

"Do you think you could recognize it?"

"I never saw the outside."

"But you saw the window. What is the likelihood of their being another bay window adorned with lilies in that area?"

"Probably slim," Bulma replied quietly.

Vegeta didn't wait for her to say more. He swiped up his shorts, stepping into them gracefully before wrapping his fingers around her slender wrist, and pulling her up from the bed.

"What are we doing?" she asked, breathless and afraid.

"We are going to get dressed and hunt this guy down." He pulled her towards the ladder, but she dug her heels in.

"S-shouldn't we call the police?" The waver in her voice exemplified her fear. She didn't want to hunt anyone down. She didn't want to be anywhere near him. Mostly she wanted to pretend he didn't exist.

Vegeta turned on her, and she was caught once again in his predatory gaze. He pulled her into him, his heat washing over her in a comforting wave. He lifted his hand and her eyes widened. Not from fear, but from shock, as he gently tucked a stay curl of blue hair behind her ear.

"It is time for you to slay your monster, Bulma."

The low intensity of his voice was overwhelmingly convincing. At that moment he could have told her to walk off a cliff and she would have nodded wordlessly and obeyed. But even beneath her body's strong desire to obey his command, she felt a shiver of fear. Of terror so overpowering that it threatened to steal her breath and freeze her heart.

"He will never hurt you again. I will be right beside you," he swore and her fear stilled beneath his shadow like a rabbit cowering from a wolf. With a strong arm behind her back, he swept her forward towards the ladder, leading her down a dark path.

88888

Detective Wong stared at the glossy photography, his forgotten cigarette turning to ash between his yellowed fingers. There was something disturbing about the photo that he just couldn't put his finger on. There was a clue there, but he couldn't decipher exactly what it was.

Chatree flung himself into the ladder-back chair next to Wong's institutional metal desk, a defeated sigh deflating his chest. Wong dropped the photo on his desk, flicking his cigarette into the ash tray as he studied his young protégée. With disinterest Chatree glanced at the photo, his eyes narrowing in irritation.

"Those damn lilies," Chatree began nodding towards the photo, "turned out to be a dead end. There was no third donor, only the maid's prints and DNA and what we assume to be Vegeta's. CSI wasn't brave enough to ask him for a sample, but they figured his was the only other exclusionary set."

Wong lit another cigarette, blowing gray swirls towards the overhead florescence as he fingered the photo.

"Sincerely Yours wouldn't leave behind any DNA or prints."

"Yah," Chatree agreed. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, and Wong's eagle eyes sharpened on him. "The brass upstairs are getting ready to release a statement saying that Merced Bruins was the killer."

Wong leaned back in his chair, enjoying another pull from his cigarette. "You don't agree with that, pup?"

Chatree rested his ankle on his opposite knee, and propped his elbow on his superior's desk. For the first time since sitting down he met Wong's gaze. "It seems sound. Bruins was unhinged, matches the description the maid gave, and he was clearly a predator."

"But?"

"But the maid didn't pick him out of a photo line-up."

"Is that all? She's twenty-two and a little scatterbrained. And photo recognition is hard."

"Yah. But she was banging him for a week straight. I would think she could recognize him from a photo." Chatree scratched the bridge of his nose, breaking eye contact with his boss.

"I don't think she was studying his facial features."

"Still…Ms. Briefs still hasn't given us a description either. I tried to interview her after we secured Bruins, but Mrs. Briefs said she was unavailable. Not that it matters. She still claims she doesn't remember anything."

"You don't believe that?"

"She was the guy's captive for over two weeks. I mean, I think I would remember the guy who murdered me."

Wong was reclined in his chair, studying the cherry tip of his cigarette. His wife was getting after him to quit, but it was one vice he was unwilling to give up.

"Trauma is a tricky thing." Chatree didn't reply, but Wong watched from the corner of his eye as the young man squirmed slightly in his seat. "Well, out with it."

"It just doesn't feel right," Chatree finally admitted. Wong leaned forward, suddenly interested.

"Why?" he prompted the detective.

"Well, Bruins was so disorganized. His place was a mess. There was no pottery kiln, no clay, and no place to hold a woman for as long as Sincerely Yours does."

"Perhaps he has another property that we don't know about," Wong advocated.

"I suppose," Chatree agreed reluctantly.

Wong picked up the photo and tossed it towards his subordinate. "Did you see any flower stuff?"

Chatree picked up the photo and studied it. "Flower stuff?"

"Lilies, vases, colored ribbon. Any of that at Bruins place."

"No," Chatree looked at Wong slyly. "But it could be at another property.

Wong's eyes narrowed at the pup.

"Could be. But where have we seen flowers recently?"

Chatree's brow crinkled, and returned his attention to the flowers. The waxy white was apparitional against the black marble of the counter they were lying on. The thick stems were such a deep green they looked emerald, and the ribbon reminded Chatree of blood. He rubbed the pad of his thumb over the white petals, feeling the slick glossy feel of the paper. Suddenly memory zinged through him like an electrical bolt. Eyes wide he looked at Wong.

"The bastard had them displayed right in his living room."

The both bolted out of their seats at the same time, Wong reaching back to scoop up his tan duster off the back of his chair.

"Call for backup."

"Yes, sir!" Chatree nodded as they raced from the precinct.


	20. Chapter 20

Disclaimer: I don't own or profit from Dragon Ball Z.

A/N: I'm searching for a beta(s) for some original fictions I will be working on. The first will be a supernatural romance with original characters. For those of you who enjoy my writing style you might want to select author update as I will be posting that story. I will also be writing a hardcore bdsm and require a mature beta for this project. I will not be posting that story here. I am looking for a beta(s) that have excellent grammar skills, as mine are lacking, and are accomplished at dialogue as that is my weakest skill. Also I need a beta(s) who will be a harsh taskmaster. Someone who will push me to complete chapters on a deadline and will be honest and concise in their critiques. If you are interested you can find my email on the homepage. Thanks bunches, and happy reading!

Fixation

Chapter Twenty

The smell of sea salt was thick in the heavy late afternoon heat. Gulls shrieked, frightened by the invading shadow overhead. Bulma and Vegeta hovered over the squat buildings, Bulma clinging to his broad back for dear life. Below her dangling feet she could see the black tar roofs of warehouses splattered with white and gray smears of bird shit.

She swallowed, trying to ignore the vertigo that made her eyes water and her stomach heave. Breathing deeply she steadied her gaze and searched the area. There were several two story buildings scattered amid the shorter warehouses. Vegeta was methodically circling them, searching for the window she had glanced through only once. The last building was closest to the waterfront, overlooking the harbor. Bulma didn't have to tell Vegeta when she saw it. He could feel it in the tightening of her body on his, in the tremor of her muscles, and in the frightened rise and fall of her chest that vibrated through his spine and into his innards.

The large bay window was bare of any treatments allowing the occupant an unimpeded view of the seascape. On a small polished table there was a crystal vase, its gold trim sparkling in the sunlight. It was filled with slender calla lilies, their waxy petals a pale reflection in the glass.

It was a pretty picture obliterated into a thousand shards by Vegeta's ki blast. They landed in the loft with a crunch. Bulma looked down as she slid off Vegeta's back. The Asian bamboo floor was littered with glittering diamonds of glass and slivers of blonde wood. By her foot was a single unmarred lily, docilely posing as an innocent amongst the carnage. She mercilessly crushed it under the thick tread of her tan hiking boot as she stepped around Vegeta to scan the rest of the room.

She tugged nervously on the elegant black glove that was drawn to her elbow as she curled her hand into a fist. She could feel the feeble surge of ki cascade down her arm to dance across her knuckles in an electrical arch. The room was exactly as she remembered. Trendy stainless steel furniture padded with black leather and expensive art on the walls decorated the loft. On the far side of the room the Monet caught her eye; the watercolor blurring even more through the lens of her tears. Trance-like she crossed the room, pulling the painting of the wall and with a shimmer of sudden rage she plunged it over the crown of a spiraling floor sculpture, shredding the priceless canvas.

Breathing heavily through her nose from the sudden surge of adrenaline she turned to the now bare wall. She spread her trembling fingers across the surface feeling only the slight imperfections of wood grain.

"What is it?"

Bulma jumped, not having realized that Vegeta had prowled up behind her. Her nerves were strung so tight it felt as if her skin would split right off her bones.

"Here, behind this wall. His trophy room."

She tapped the wall, remembering the day he had brought her upstairs to meet 'his girls.' Vegeta nudged her aside, his arm extended, his palm sparking with blue fire.

"No!" Bulma leaned on his arm forcing him to close his fist to extinguish the flame. "Don't hurt them." She dropped her eyes, cheeks flushed with a mixture of fear and embarrassment.

Her heart pounded as he brushed her off to square his stance and with a blow of inhuman strength he drove his fist past the splintering wood, burying it deep in the vault door beneath. The metal folded around his hand like gray molding putty as he clawed and hacked his way to the other side.

The door lay in chunks around their feet by the time Vegeta made an entrance large enough for them to pass through. The room beyond was pristine in all of its worshiped glory. The walls were lined with floating polished shelves of silver, gold plaques centered carefully beneath each unique urn. The labels were simple; names like Tammy or Leanne with a corresponding date engraved on each. There were five lighted pedestals in the middle of the room; his 'favorites' he called them. The center one was bare, her name emblazoned on the plaque, the date scrubbed clean.

Her body lurched to the side, her heart and lungs constricting until she could barely breathe. Something horrible churned in her stomach as she shoved past Vegeta, her hand clamped over her mouth. She made it to the shattered window, one hand braced on the broken frame as her stomach contents splattered on the pavement two stories below.

Her shirt pulled tight across her chest as Vegeta gathered a fistful of material between her shoulder blades to prevent her from falling face first. She was wiping her mouth on the back of her arm when the downstairs door opened. Sweet cologne and Irish spring soap wafted around her. He had been downstairs this entire time. How could she have forgotten the soundproof room beneath their feet? Memories rushed over her, threatening to buckle her with their horrendous weight. She remembered everything. His long fingers, his thin blonde hair. How he always came to her freshly showered and impeccably groomed, like an eager suitor on a first date.

"What do you think you are doing? How dare you destroy my home!"

Bulma closed her eyes against the assault of the familiar voice. Its imperious tones slicing down her spine. She rocked forward and Vegeta's grip tightened.

"I demand that you leave immediately before I call the authorities."

Demand. He never began with demands. He always spoke to her in soft simpering tones as he attempted to coax a smile, an utterance of devotion, a kiss from her lips. The demands came later after she refused to play his game. Along with the recriminations that she didn't love him enough. This tone was the one he used when his patience snapped and he 'demanded' his way usually in the most painful method possible.

Bulma took a deep breath, filling her lungs with sea air. She tasted freedom and felt the reassuring heat of Vegeta at her back. For the first time in months she felt a whisper of peace, and she knew that complete emancipation was only a fistful of courage away.

She braced herself, shaking off Vegeta's grip so she could step around him. For the first time since her death she gazed upon the face that even her nightmares were reluctant to reveal to her.

"We both know you aren't going to call anyone." She was proud that her voice didn't tremble and it gave her more strength.

Bulma watched as the blonde man's pallid features become florid at the sight of her. The brilliant smile that weaseled out beneath his pencil mustache turned her blood cold. In a whoosh of insanity he seemingly forgot all his previous anger at their intrusion as he crossed the room, his arms outstretched in welcome as if to greet her like a long lost lover. Panic surged through her body. Terrified, she was pinned to the spot, helpless to stop his approach. His fingers came within a fraction of her bared arms above her gloves before he was crushed to his knees by Vegeta's grip on his throat. His already flaming cheeks became alarmingly flushed as he gurgled and clawed at Vegeta's hand. Bulma released her pent up breath, realizing her lungs had begun to burn with the need to breath. Vegeta had made a promise that her 'monster' wouldn't touch her, and he kept it. She tried to remember the last time a man kept a promise to her, but all she could summon up was Yamcha's remorseful countenance. She shifted to the side so she might better see the terror on Genzo's face. She searched her soul for remorse or pity, but all she felt was elation.

Genzo's watery blue eyes darted towards her, silently pleading for mercy. Thin red lines were snaking through his corneas, unconscious tears streaming down his cheeks. She cocked her head to the side, studying him like she would the innards of a new mechanical project. For the first time she felt a sensation of disconnect. This wasn't a monster. It was a man. An evil, horrible man who had done things to her that she would never have the strength to repeat. He had destroyed her piece, by bitter, painful piece, and now he was in her complete and utter control. Slowly, _lovingly_, she swiped her thumb over his cheek, wiping away his tears. Her black gloves were stark against his flagrant cheeks-as cold and as dark as the hole in her soul.

"How does it feel to be held down? Helpless?" she whispered to him, her memories feeding the growing darkness inside her. He struggled against Vegeta's hold, his pale eyes flashing with the temper she knew so well. He wanted to punish her, just as he had done so many times in the past.

"No, no, my dearest," she cooed, his endearment for her rolling from her tongue. How many times had her called her 'my dearest' as he ran his knife over her skin? When he invaded her body? Her hand slid over his cheek, her thumb catching on his lower lip and pealing it away so she could see his white teeth and pink gums. "Not today. Today is my day." Her hand dropped away, leaving behind desolate realization behind in Genzo's eyes.

Vegeta's dark damning eyes lifted from Genzo to settle on her. She could feel their weight as clearly as she could a down comforter wrapped warmly around her in the middle of winter. She met his gaze, a tiny hungry smile curving on her lips.

"Show me how to make a fist." His husky demand made her heart flip, and for the tiniest moment she forgot Genzo. She raised her arm, her small hand curling into a tight fist. She felt a rush of energy down her arm and blue lightning arced across the scaled plates over her knuckles.

Vegeta's smile was evil as he looked down at the struggling man at his feet. Bulma followed his gaze, her smile just as wicked. On its own accord her other hand fisted at her side.

"Aim for the eye," Vegeta coached.

Bulma widened her awkward stance, indecision flooding her. She had never struck anyone in her life. There had always been someone there to protect her; Goku or Yamcha, until the day they weren't and she died. Now there was Vegeta. She chewed her lower lip, her fists loosening.

"I won't do your dirty work, woman. If you want him punished, then you need to be the one to do it."

Pride made her obstinate. She refused to look at him for reassurance. She drew her fist back and swung. Her blow glanced across Genzo's jaw. It was weak, but his head still snapped to the side-more from shock than anything she guessed. Blood rushed to his chin, darkening in the beginnings of a bruise. Seeing physical evidence of the pain she inflicted upon him was euphoric. Her lip curled over her white teeth in a mockery of a smile as she struck him again and again. Harder. Fiercer. Wilder.

She dug her hand into his short hair, angling his face towards her. She saw smears red blood over too pale skin nearly overshadowed by wide horrified eyes. The sight of his terror thrilled her. She felt powerful. His suffering made her invincible. It made her a God. The rush of it was addicting.

"Does it hurt enough, my dearest? Should I get the knives?" Her voice was a sickly sweet snarl, a mockery of his when he had leaned over her. She remembered his face then, so different from now. Clean shaven, his pale pink lips pursed in concern as she begged for him to stop. How shameful she had been in the end. How utterly willing to be his slave. That was when it all changed. When she was no longer interesting. When she started to beg instead of cursing him. After he broke her, after she had become compliant in every act that he wanted, that was when the end began. And how thankful she had been for that. For the end to her suffering.

She struck him until her hand felt broken and her arm burned with exertion. She switched stances and beat him down with her other fist. She beat him until Vegeta no longer had to hold him still. He collapsed onto the floor, both eyes swollen, his jaw askew, his thin petulant lips shredded.

When it became too hard to bend over to beat him, she drew back her booted foot and kicked. Something cracked and her smile grew.

"Beg for me to stop like I did," she screamed. "Promise me anything I want. Get on your hands and knees and tell me that you'll do anything to make the pain stop." He curled up like a dying dog, but she kept kicking, circling like a wolf searching for a prime opening. She kicked until she heard a tiny, insignificant sound she could barely make out over her harsh panting breathes. She paused, wiping the sweat from her brow and listened.

Genzo was praying. His lips barely moved, the nearly inarticulate words bubbling with blood. She had begged, but she had never prayed. Too what purpose she had wondered as she lay bleeding in the dark? God was an alien on a watchtower in the sky. He couldn't hear her. He couldn't help her. She leaned closer and he cringed away like a frightened animal. He wasn't just a horrible, evil man. He was a human being. Someone who believed in a God. Who thought he had a soul that could be saved. A sick feeling slithered in her belly. She covered her mouth with her gloved hand and tasted blood. Genzo's blood.

She wheeling back from the massacre. She felt bile swell in her throat, burning as she swallowed it down.

"Finish him." Vegeta stood aside, cold and formidable. He had been silent through the entire event, neither encouraging nor disapproving. Now he addressed her with cold-blooded practicality. "If you don't, you will never be free."

Bulma stared at the huddled bloody mass; at the remains of the man who tortured her until she asked for death. She sunk to her knees, peeling off her gloves with a slick snap. She lifted her ghostly white hands to her face. She wiped away warm droplets of blood from her cheeks with trembling fingers.

"No." Her whisper was barely heard over Genzo's broken whimpers.

"Do it." Vegeta moved to tower over her, and she had to steel herself not to shrink away. She infused that steel with conviction as she glared up at him with tear-bright eyes.

"I'm not a monster, Vegeta. I'm not him."

She held his gaze for long moments, until it felt like the air was being squeezed from her lungs. Far away, passed the crashing of the waves and the screeching of gulls, sirens wailed. Vegeta broke away, his hands fisted as he approached Genzo. Bulma scrambled to her feet, using her crouched position to leap onto his back. He stiffened beneath her, his fingers prying at her wrists woven around his neck.

"You mustn't," she begged.

"Someone must," he bit out. Bulma heard something she couldn't recognize behind his words and she had to wonder at his resolution. The sirens were a shriek in the wind, a banshee foretelling death.

"The police are coming. He's done for."

He roughly shook her off, but he did not turn to face her. She stared at the width of his shoulders and thought of all the suffering he must have endured to be so strong.

"Imprisonment is hardly a fitting punishment for his crimes."

"It is what I choose."

Vegeta turned and she felt small under the intensity of his gaze.

"As long as he lives, you won't feel safe."

Bulma placed her delicate hand on his chest, soaking in his innate warmth through the thin layer of his clothing. Beneath her palm she knew he still felt the death blow dealt to him by Frieza.

"It will have to be enough to heal my wounds." The sirens were closing in and fear shimmied down her spine. "I've committed a crime here." She lifted her gaze from her hand to his implacable features. "Take me away while you still can."

He held her gaze for a heart beat before swiping up her bloody gloves from the floor and gathering her up against his side. As they flew out the window the fresh air rushed over her, washing away the scent of blood and lilies, leaving only the crisp taste of freedom on her tongue.


	21. Chapter 21

Disclaimer: I don't own or profit from Dragon Ball Z.

A/N: I'm so sorry for the delay. All I can say is that at eight months pregnant the only thing I seem to be compelled to write is lists. I have lists for my lists. I'm going to try and gather my considerably scattered wits and get the rest of this story out before the baby comes. Because we all know that nothing, but crying, feeding and pooping happens for 3 to 5 months afterwards. How can I possibly dream up stories if I never sleep? Anyways, thanks for your patience. You guys are fantastic.

Fixation

Chapter Twenty-One

Bulma had been living wire-taut for a week and a half. The beating she gave Genzo had him in intensive care with various wounds, including a broken jaw that prevented him from speaking. As she sat sedately across from Detective Wong in the front parlor, she wondered if the bastard had recovered enough to give a statement to the police. From the corner of her eye she tracked Detective Chatree as he restlessly paced the large, exquisitely decorated space. Her mother sat beside her, her spine ram rod straight, her smile projecting the perfect amount of hostess welcome, but there was a slight edge to her lips that showed her canines which made Bulma think of protective bitch with newborn pups.

Wong cleared his throat, and Bulma immediately targeted him with sharp crystal eyes.

"As you know, we have Sataro Genzo, otherwise known as Sincerely Yours, in custody."

"Yes, your Lieutenant was kind enough to inform me of his apprehension last week." Bulma poured tea into small china cups, calmly handing it to Wong without even a quiver of unease. Wong waited until everyone was served before speaking.

"You'll be happy to know that after a thorough search of his home we found DNA evidence that linked six of the ten confirmed victims of Sincerely Yours to his…" Wong trailed off. Bulma watched as he nervously tapped his nicotine stained fingers on the cream brocade settee.

"Torture room?" Bulma offered helpfully.

Wong frowned, but plowed on. "Yes. All of the plaques for the urns match the first names of his victims and the corresponding dates of their deaths. Unfortunately no DNA was recovered from the fired clay."

"Of course, the heat would have destroyed any DNA that would have been mixed into the urns. Was he able to explain how he convinced the upstairs maid to deliver the flowers?" Bulma was proud that her voice didn't waver as she spoke. Since her confrontation with Genzo, her confidence had increased tenfold. She no longer felt that there was someone or something lurking around every corner waiting to leap on her if she let her guard down even for one moment. She knew that Genzo was in custody and that he couldn't hurt her. He wasn't a magical being that could transport himself beyond locked doors, and creep through shadows. However, Vegeta had been right on one count. There was a lingering sense of danger that stalked her. She supposed the instinctual fear would never go away. She would spend the rest of her life looking over her shoulder and locking the door. She may not be looking for Genzo in particular, but now she knew monsters did exist and the idea that one might be right behind her would always haunt her.

"It seems that he hired an out of work actor, part-time rent boy, to seduce the upstairs maid. His similarity to Bruins was merely coincidental. We picked him up for questioning, but it's unlikely he'll be charged for anything more than prostitution."

Chatree came to a halt by an arrangement of perfect pink rose blooms. He tapped his pencil on his notepad, his black eyes glaring holes at Bulma. "Merced Bruins was a deranged guy whose rap sheet showed a slow process of derailment."

Bunny shifted, and suddenly Bulma was cut off from Chatree's penetrating stare. "Thank goodness the investigation led you wonderful detectives to him before he did any major harm to anyone." Bunny smiled brightly and offered the detectives a plate of sugared petit fours. Wong smiled weakly and accepted one, while Chatree just shook his head without moving closer.

"Yes, he'd been putting his deranged fantasies on canvas for years. We were able to arrive just in time to stop him from enacting them." Wong put the cookie aside without taking a bite and took a sip of his tea. The corner of Bulma's mouth lifted when she saw him try to hide his grimace. She was certain he would rather have a strong cup of black coffee instead of the weak tea her mother served. He set his teacup next to the untouched desert, and placidly met Bulma's gaze.

"The fingerprint found in the shard of pottery sent to you did match Genzo's. Also in his work room we found the crushed beetle remains he used to create the unusual shade of azure glaze. However, unless you want your resurrection to be public knowledge we won't be able to charge him with your murder. At most we could press charges for kidnapping, wrongful imprisonment and torture. Though we are at a loss of how to explain your "escape".

"Yes, I can see how that would be tricky. You said you found evidence of at least six of the victims in his home?"

"Yes, and making a case for the other four shouldn't be that hard."

"Then there is more than enough evidence to keep him in prison for life?"

Wong leaned forward in his seat. "Many times over."

Bulma took a sip of her tea, considering her options. She licked her lower lip, meeting Wong's steady gaze. "Then I see no reason to add me to the list of victims. As far as the world is concerned I was merely on extended holiday for six months. The idea that I was a victim of Sincerely Yours was just speculation, and since I'm alive and well that speculation proved to be false."

Wong smiled and sat back. "We thought you might say that. Of course this does not diminish your experience in anyway and the department extends its deepest sympathies."

Bulma nodded her head, accepting her mother's supportive pat on the hand.

"Of course, Genzo's assault is still an unsolved crime." Chatree cut in. He weaved his way around the couch in a smooth glide that reminded Bulma of a shark circling prey. He stood over her, only the delicate rosewood tea table between them. "In fact, he's claiming that_ you_ nearly beat him to death, Ms. Briefs."

Bulma had prepared herself for this, but it still didn't alleviate the shiver of fear that raced down her spine. She leaned forward to hide her expression setting her teacup and saucer on the table. She smiled serenely when it didn't even rattle. That same serene expression was securely plastered on her face when she met Wong's gaze unwaveringly, ignoring the younger detective.

"He claims that I assaulted him?" She spoke with the soft cultured tones of her mother, her hand floating to her chest with slow measured grace.

"It does seem unlikely." Wong's reply was steady, his dark eyes veiled.

"I would think so." Bunny's voice was a replica of her daughter's. Her usually cheerful narrowed eyes were wide and nearly predatory in their sharpness.

Bulma slipped her small hand into her mother's as much for comfort as it was to thank her for her unflinching loyalty. "If I had the ability to defend myself I would have done so when I was captive. Perhaps it was a family member of one of his victims."

"Doubtful, since no one knew who he was. No one except you, that is." Chatree's tone was bordering on rude, and Bulma could feel her mother's affront in her unnatural stillness. Bulma strove to be unaffected, addressing herself only to Wong.

"As I've stated on numerous occasions, I don't remember Genzo nor where he kept me."

"How convenient."

Bulma's cool eyes flickered to Chatree before reconnecting with Wong's

"For my peace of mind I'm sure that it is, but for curiosity's sake how did I get into his home?"

"You flew through the second story window," Wong quipped, and Chatree tossed him a dirty look.

Bulma arched a finely curved eyebrow. "So to be clear, I am powerful enough to nearly beat to death a full grown man twice my size _and_ I can fly?"

Wong nodded and Chatree stewed in silence.

"Well, I need to update my wardrobe. Perhaps something in spandex and sequences. What do you think, Mama?"

"I think you'd look magnificent in red and blue. Perhaps some gold boots as well, my dear."

Wong snorted and Chatree turned a fiery shade of red, his lips curling as he spoke. "He said you had an accomplice."  
Bulma's eyes sharpened on Chatree. When Bunny combined her icy gaze with her daughter's the young man nearly froze on the spot.

"Did he say what this imagined accomplice looked like?" Bulma asked scornfully.

"Only that he had the blackest eyes he had ever seen."

"You have black eyes, Detective Chatree. Are you a secret vigilante?"

"No," Chatree spat.

"Is there any evidence of this accomplice?"

"No."

"Any evidence that I was there? DNA that can't be explained by my previous stay? Fingerprints? Anything?"

Chatree shook his head sullenly. Bulma glanced at Wong who was watching her with solid, knowing eyes.

"So let me get this straight, Detective. The man who stalked, tortured and murdered me has a insanity induced hallucination that the woman whom he has an abnormal fixation on broke into his home and beat him to an inch of his life, and you immediately rush over to invade my home and accuse me of a crime."

Bulma was standing now, her mother an impenetrable wall at her side. Chatree's features bled white and there was fear in his eyes.

"I think it's time you left." Bunny suggested with more authority than any would have guessed the perfect hostess was capable of.

Chatree nodded, backing away while mumbling barely audible apologies. Wong rose smoothly, reaching to shake Bulma's hand. His palm was cool and dry next to hers, his grip comforting.

"It was a pleasure as always," he nodded to Bunny, before meeting Bulma's gaze. "You won't be hearing from us again, Ms. Briefs."

Bulma nodded, knowing innately that Wong knew she was the assailant, but that it did not matter. If any evidence did turn up he would bury it, just like he buried the story of her murder. He released her hand and gathered up his partner. Bulma watched as they walked away, a huge weight lifting from her chest.

The room was silent, her mother by her side, their hands still linked. Throughout her entire life she always knew that her mother loved her, but she had never felt like she could rely on her. Her mother was a wildfire of activity, always on the move, always someplace to be or something to do. It wasn't that she didn't make time for Bulma; it was just that time was always limited. However, today her mother had proven irrevocably that she would always be there for Bulma. That warm sense of being fully loved would never dissipate, but it was tinged with guilt. Bunny had defended her, fully believing that Bulma would never commit the crime that she was accused of. Bulma couldn't lie to her mother, to the police without a doubt, but her mother deserved to know who her daughter was.

Bulma lowered her chin, her eyes drawn to their linked hands.

"Mama?"

Bunny's hand tightened on hers.

"I think I'm going to bake some cookies. Are peanut butter still your favorite, dear?"

Thrown, Bulma glanced up at her mother. Bunny was smiling, her eyes narrowed with cheerfulness. "Well, yes, but, Mama."

"Wonderful." Bunny brought their hands up so she could grasp Bulma's hand between both of hers. "I'll make enough cookies to last a week."

"Mama." Bulma tried to pull her hand away, but Bunny held on tight. She was rendered immobile when her mother suddenly turned towards her, her bright, robin egg blue eyes staring straight at her. She brought her pale hand to her cheek, and Bulma was momentarily amazed at how soft her mother's skin was.

"Bulma, I'll always love you, no matter what. You know that, right?"

Bulma was shocked speechless at the blatant understanding in her mother's eyes. She swallowed hard, and nodded. "Yes, Mama."

Bunny smiled softly and stroked her fingers down her daughter's cheek. Her smile stretched into a grin that narrowed her eyes. She patted Bulma's cheek perkily, before turning away.

"Alright, dear. Why don't you go take a nap? You look a little peaked, and like I always say, the key to eternal beauty is 'me time'."

Bunny trotted out of the room before Bulma could reply, leaving her daughter behind stunned and warmed by her mother's love.

Bulma mentally shook out all the tension in her body that had built up in the last week as she walked back to her rooms. She was finally free. Genzo was no longer lurking in every shadow, and the police wouldn't be knocking at her door looking to arrest her. Everything was falling into place. Life was nearly back to normal. Better than normal, she admitted, because now she had Vegeta in her life.

Bulma's smile faded as she opened the door. She could feel the shift in the atmosphere as soon as she entered the suite. There was no discernable difference in the environment, just an overwhelming sense of sadness that something was about to change. She drifted towards their bedroom in a surreal haze. It was the middle of the afternoon, but Vegeta stood boldly confident on the balcony. One foot was propped up on the white and gold footlocker which stored his only possessions. His arms were crossed over his broad chest as he stared down into the backyard.

She knew he was aware of her, but not one muscle twitched as she moved behind him. The back of her throat itched and she swallowed it down. She couldn't bring herself to approach him on the balcony; instead she sunk down on the bed they shared. She tucked her ankles back and folded her hands on her lap so she wouldn't pick nervously at her cuticles. She stared at her hands, feeling the soft summer breeze from the open balcony stir her hair.

"You're leaving." She strove to keep judgment from her tone, but even to her ears she sounded heartbroken.

"To train. Your peons have already prepared the ship."

"When will you come back?" Her hands fidgeted in her lap, and it seemed no matter how tightly she clenched them together her fingers trembled.

"When I am strong."

Bulma's wide blue eyes darted up. The slabs of muscle on Vegeta's back were rigid with tension.

"You're the strongest man I know, Vegeta."

"Prince Vegeta."

Bulma was momentarily disconcerted by the snap in Vegeta's tone.

"What?"

"How quickly you humans forget. You arrange things to your liking, disrespecting those you shouldn't." Slowly Vegeta turned to face her. "Lying to your betters," he spat with hard twisted lips.

Bulma listened with wide eyes and a clenched chest. She recognized his tirade for what it was, a way to distance them. He had barely finished before she bolted from the bed, barreling into him at full speed. She wrapped both her arms around him in a silent dare for him to just try and wrench her away. She braced herself fully against his unyielding body, burying her face in his chest.

"I would never lie to you, Vegeta. Strength is more than just physical. You have overcome hardship and tragedy and despite the evil you have endured you have treated this weak human female with nothing but kindness and compassion."

Vegeta gripped her by the shoulders, and tried to thrust her away, but she locked her hands around wrists and refused to give way.

"Your sentimental heart exaggerates. It sees things that aren't true."

"Perhaps, my feelings are exaggerated, but I know what I see, and I see you, Prince Vegeta."

He glanced down to see her peeking up at him from the harbor of his arms. Silence stretched between them until his muscles began to relax. She felt the change in him immediately, and she lowered her head so she could nuzzle into him.

"You will be back in time for the androids?" she asked in a low whisper. At a year and half away their dreaded arrival seemed like an entire lifetime, especially without Vegeta.

"I have already pledged my intention to defeat them." Vegeta's words were filled with snide anger that she would question his honor. She rolled her eyes and rubbed her cheek across his chest.

"You can stay and train. You can stay with me."

He tugged at her and this time she allowed herself to be parted from him. She tipped her head back, meeting his hard eyes.

"Our business is concluded. The worm who murdered you is incarcerated, just as you wished. There is no reason for me not to leave."

No reason for him to stay either, she concluded. Vegeta was so alone in the universe; the idea of being wanted must be mindboggling to him.

"But I want you to stay." She glanced down, picking at the hem of his navy shirt. "I need you to stay."

Vegeta swatted her hand away.

"As I said, there is no reason to stay." The hard edge of Vegeta's tone made her want to cringe away, but instead of surrendering to the weak instinct she allowed anger to flood her senses. She reached up, cupping his face between her hands. The line of his mouth tightened, but she held her ground.

"Why is it so hard for you to believe that someone could want you for something other than your strength?"

Vegeta angled his head down so their brows nearly touched.

"Did you not just ask me to fight the androids?"

Bulma frowned, her ruby lips puckering until the corners of her mouth all but disappeared.

"No, you nitwit. I was asking you to come back. Fight the androids, don't fight them, I don't care. Just come back to me," she stated passionately, fire burning in her ice eyes.

"Ah, now I understand," he murmured. "Now that my strength has become obsolete, you are done using me as your personal bodyguard, and have decided I'm useful as a body servant instead." Bulma tried to pull away, but Vegeta's strong hands were clamped down on her hips. "You must be cock hungry."

"What!" Bulma's wide eyes shot him a look full of shock and disgust. "Vegeta, that's not what…"

Before she could finish, he hauled her off the ground by her hips, and walked her backwards. He flung her onto the bed, his solid weight following her down. He nipped animal-like at her throat, pawing at her shirt. She tried to buck him off, but he was too overwhelming.

"Vegeta, please." She gasped for air as he roughly kneed her legs apart. "Stop!"

He froze above her. She squeezed her eyes shut, pearling acid hot tears on her lashes.

"Why do you hate yourself so much?" she whispered to the void behind her closed eyes.

"There's certainly nothing to love," he whispered back, his warm breath feathering over her pulse.

She opened her eyes, staring long and hard at the man poised above her. He was a terrible monster who had done terrible things. Things she couldn't even contemplate, things she didn't want to. Was there truly anything to love about him? But he was also a man. A man who reassured her when she was afraid. Who strengthened her when she was weak. Who was cruel to her when everyone else was too kind. Who was merciful when others were monstrous. How could she not love him?

"That's not true, Vegeta." She placed her palm against his cheek and felt the smoothness of his skin, the hardness of his jaw.

He lowered his dark lashes, breaking eye contract with her. His strong fingers encircled her fragile wrist, pulling her hand away from his face.

"I will always be a bastard, Bulma. That will never change."

She turned away, looking out the balcony doors to the clear summer sky, which mocked the shadows in her heart. Vegeta shifted and she felt his soft lips at the corner of her eye where her tears were suspended. He trailed down her cheek with butterfly softness, prompting her to tilt her mouth towards his. His lips fitted over hers, gently petitioning for unspoken forgiveness until all her anger and fear flowed away. He teased her lower lip with his teeth, his tongue trailing behind to make it all better. Her mouth parted and her body softened. Vegeta sunk into her, his tongue dancing between her lips and his hips settling between her thighs.

His touch was different. There was no hesitation, yet it was gentle and soothing. He petted her from shoulder to waist in long smooth caresses that bled the tension from her body. She drowned in his kiss, only coming up for air in the brief seconds it took for him to undress them. Then he was back. His hot skin plied over hers, his lips communicating a language she could barely understand. Something sweet and tender, and completely foreign to everything she knew about Vegeta.

Longing and sorrow built inside her the longer he kissed her. He trailed away from her mouth and she whimpered. He teased her breasts with his fingers and tongue until the sadness expanded in her chest, making her pant with breathlessness. He skimmed lower, and she turned her face to weep into the comforter. She came in his mouth, sobbing in a mixture of pleasure and remorse.

When he finally surged inside her, she wrapped her entire body around him. Her legs twined with his, her arms wrapped around his broad shoulders. He gathered her up against his chest, and whispered soft words she couldn't hear against her throat. He moved slowly, savoring every moment. He licked away her tears, and swallowed her sobs, taking away all her sadness and anger until she was drained and ready to be filled again.

He thrust, desperate to make her forget her emptiness, knowing he couldn't make it right. Tension built within her body, and she could feel it quiver in his. He met her eyes, and for once he didn't look away. He stared down into her soul, watching it shatter into a thousand pieces as the ecstasy washed over her. He followed her down, and she watched him drown in darkness, helpless to save him from himself. In the last moment of his pleasure he closed his eyes, shutting her out. She cried out, but the sound was indecipherable between acceptance and denial. It merely was.

She closed her eyes against the resurging sorrow, forcing herself to let go when the unnatural intensity that was Vegeta receded from her, taking her heart and soul with him.

Bulma watched through lowered lashes as Vegeta dressed. The air had cooled, but the sheets she lay on were still hot from their lovemaking. He bent over to put on his blue uniform slacks, something she hadn't seen him wear since Namek. Watching him dress was like watching him shoulder on a different person. The monster he was before coming to Earth. He was casting her off, just like he cast off all the other gifts he had been blessed with since arriving here. She flipped onto her back, flinging her arm over eyes to block out the sight of him leaving her.

She sighed heavily, her kiss lush lips drawn down into a pout. She could throw a tantrum. Cry and scream and take every action and word as a personal affront or she could behave with grace. More importantly, instead of making it all about her, just maybe she should make it all about Vegeta. A man who thought he was so worthless that he was beyond loving.

"I hope that you'll come back. Not for the androids or to prove your strength. Not even because you are fantastic in bed. Which you are," she added wryly, but the sadness crept across her heart. "But because I miss you already and will count the days until you come home to me."

She waited, her breath caught in her chest. Only silence greeted her plea, and when it seemed she would never be able to breathe again, she lifted her arm from her eyes to glance over at Vegeta, but he was gone, along with his belongings. The only things left were the black satin gloves draped over the white balcony banister as a reminder to protect herself while he was gone.

Bulma rolled over to his side of the bed, feeling the now cold sheets under her cheek, and cried as the emptiness crushed her from the inside out.


	22. Chapter 22

Disclaimer: I don't own or profit from DBZ.

A/N: Thank you so much for all your patience. I feel badly that it took me so long to get out the last chapter of this story. I've actually had it outlined for months, but haven't had the time or the energy to get it typed out. I had a bouncing baby girl in October, 10 pounds, 2 ounces and 22 inches. She's a whooper. At the time I'm writing this she's not quite five months. She is however, sleeping through the night, a WHOLE SIX HOURS, and I have rediscovered that yes in fact I have a brain and it didn't leak out my ears due to sleep loss. Again, thank you for all your patience and your reviews. I hope you have enjoyed reading this story as much as I have enjoyed writing it!

Chapter Twenty-two

Vegeta stared into oblivion. He had been orbiting the dark side of the Earth's moon for a day and a half, sheltered in complete silence in the small celestial orb's shadow, and he still could not order his thoughts to his liking. They weren't the thoughts of a prince or even a warrior. They certainly weren't the thoughts of a villain. They were thoughts of a man. A very angry man who would dearly like to reach into his own brain, rip out the offensive thoughts, and stomp them into the ground.

"_I'm missing you already."_

Bulma's plaintive last words echoed in his head. What possible response could he make to that? No one had ever desired his company before. Even his men, who were bound to him in more than just duty, but an uneasy sense of camaraderie, had needed to get away from him from time to time.

He was aware that with Bulma he was different. He wasn't the monster driven by anger and a thirst for revenge that he had been under Frieza's subjugation. Nor was he the master of the universe that he could be if he would just rally the desire to fill the void Frieza's death left in the universal hierarchy.

No, he was something altogether different. Not what he was or what he should be. It was something completely foreign, completely unmanageable and one hundred percent completely unacceptable.

And that was that.

And it should be. Except he was still parked under the moon, staring into space like a goddamn buffoon.

Vegeta just couldn't quite pinpoint the problem. He knew he could leave Bulma. Though it resulted in a strange byproduct of a sick, uncomfortable churning in his stomach, he knew that leaving was for the best. Regardless of what she said, he did need to become stronger and he would confront the androids. However, Vegeta was uncertain if his reasons were still the same. He no longer felt the overwhelming ennui in his bones urging him to leave this existence. He still desired to destroy the androids and to defeat Kakarot, but sometime between wishing that he had stayed dead when Frieza murdered him, and teaching Bulma to be stronger, a bright blue spark ignited inside him. It urged him to live, to become better. A better warrior, a better prince, a better man.

No, the niggling pinprick of unease in the back of his brain didn't originate from leaving Bulma. He knew he would be back for her. The unease arose from the thought that she wouldn't be there when he did. The Earth dragon balls could only resurrect a murdered individual once. Bulma had already used up her only pass and Genzo was still alive. Bulma seemed to think that she was safe now that he was locked up, but Vegeta had seen a lot of prisons in his time, far more secure than those pieces of crap human ones and there was always one common element. Cages were meant to be broken out of.

Vegeta had no idea how long he would be gone. There was no way he could protect Bulma from the trouble she would more than likely get in to, but he could eliminate one sure threat. He could eradicate Genzo. Galvanized he prepped the short range surface pod for launch, his ivory canines glinting in the dim stellar light.

Officer Ramos swiped the sweat off the back of his neck. The summer sun was hot and heavy, pressing angrily down on the world. It burned the dirt into hardened clay and in the distance he could see waves rising off the flat horizon. Outwards from his tower he could only see desert for miles. It was achingly empty, but beautiful in its own natural way. Squatting behind him, the institutional gray compound curled around itself like a stone dragon, sharp and ugly, it had no place amidst the stark beauty of the desert. Nor did the abominations of nature that inhabited it. A religious man, Ramos believed the criminals were destined for a hotter place than where they currently resided. He just wished they would go sooner than later.

He swept the perimeter, noting the other guards in their towers, and the eleven a.m. group lounging in The Yard for their daily constitutional. Ramos paused, his dark hawkish eyes blinking. For the span of heartbeat he thought he saw a dark figure on the scaled spine the main dormitory, but just as quickly as he saw it, the shadow disappeared. He shifted his weight, considering his options. It was more than likely nothing, a vulture casting a shadow from the sky above. Besides men didn't have hair shaped into hell flame and move faster than the wind. Ramos looked back out into the expanse of the desert. And if the Devil came to collect his due, he was no man to say otherwise.

Genzo had his back pressed against the twelve foot chain link fence topped with glinting loops of razor wire that surrounded The Yard. The prisoners only received one hour of outdoor time a day, and most clustered near the far side of the fence that looked out into the desert. It amused the Warden to allow his prisoners to see what they couldn't have. Though they were miles from anything considered to be civilization, and a lone wander would more than likely die after only a few days in the heat, he knew his wards dreamed of the great sandy expanse just outside the gate. They dreamed, and connived and concocted, and his guards watched them from their sniper towers, waiting for the chance to lodge a bullet in some cocky dimwit's brainpan.

Genzo had chosen a spot well away from the other inmates. He edged a little to the right, trying to press his body into the dwindling shadow cast by the narrow alley between the administration building and the guard barracks that stood behind him. Those grounds were off limits to prisoners, and this area of The Yard was met with derision by the prisoners. They disliked being close to anything that reminded them of their captors.

The men were broken up into different cliques like a goddamn schoolyard. Only these cliques were dangerous. Divided up by race or affiliation the various colorfully named gangs were the movers and shakers of prison society. It was a hierarchy that was dominated by the number of members at any given time and respect for the godfathers, the men who had been on the inside the longest. If you wanted to survive you needed protection from one of the groups. Loners might as well be dog chow. These societal bottom feeders weren't picky about their group members. Like any club there may be prerequisites for entrance, such as race or belief, but there was usually a place for everyone. Strength in numbers after all. So if one of the bigger groups wouldn't take you in, then maybe one of the smaller ones looking to expand.

Rarely were there those that were universally denied membership by every group. No one, not even the race hating Nazis or the world-ending nihilists would extend protection them. Kiddy rapists were at the bottom of this food chain. They were the bone, and the inmates were the dogs. Sometimes the guards would let them have a bite before they got moved into protective custody.

Men who raped and tortured women over a period of weeks were only just above them. Most of the inmates loved their baby mamas in their own way. Sure they complained about them being bat-shit crazy, and "that dumb bitch," did this and that, but the thought of them being preyed upon while they were locked up and unable to protect them just made them bee-stung mad.

The Warden denied Genzo's request for protective custody. Told him to get his lawyer to file the proper paperwork. His court assigned guppy hadn't got around to it yet, and more than likely wouldn't soon. His funds frozen and his property in rebate, he couldn't afford a shark. Everyone here was out to get him. They had no idea who he was, who his father had been. They would regret threatening him this way. But until he could get the money for a real lawyer he had to bide his time. He had to watch his back.

"I saw my first real monster on the eve of my sixth year." At the sound of the familiar dark voice behind him, Genzo nearly lost his bladder. While in the hospital, his jaw wired shut, his limbs encased in plaster, he floated away into morphine drip dreams. His beautiful lover's eyes staring down at him, her rose red lips curled into a smile, but there was always something behind her. A hint of a shadow looming over her shoulders like bat wings. The dark-haired man come to take him away. Fear froze him in place. He cast his panic stricken gaze over the crowd of inmates, his milk blue eyes bobbing rapidly in his skull. His jaw dropped open as if to call out to them, but his heavy lungs couldn't produce the air needed for even a tiny squeak. "He looked exactly like a monster should. Reptilian scales, pointed claws and a sick sharp smile. I didn't know it then, but I was looking at the King of monsters, the Emperor of all things evil…and he taught me everything I know."

Vegeta could see the delicate bones of the man's vertebrae in his scrawny neck, the tightening of his smooth hairless skin across his bones, the quiver of his stooped shoulders. Vegeta watched him telegraph his every thought through the byplay of his muscles.

"You see, like you, I'm a monster, unlike you, I'm not depraved. It wasn't until I came to know a victim that I really understood the difference. I knew that there were varieties of perversion, but a monster is just that, a monster, I thought. But we really can't call Bulma a 'victim' in this story can we? She's more like a heroine. I used to look at her and think she was a weak, sniveling thing. A wounded animal that needed to be put down. But for all her physical weakness, for all her psychological damage, she bested you. You tried to break her down. You stalked and terrorized her, tortured, raped and murdered her. Yet, she got the better of you. In fact, she is so much more than either you or I, because in the end when she had you by the balls, instead of squeezing until you squealed, she turned away and showed you mercy. I dare say she might even be capable of forgiveness some day. I don't know about you, but to me that's awe inspiring."

Genzo hunched his shoulders against the soft spoken onslaught. The man didn't speak. He growled, like a predatory animal. Surely he couldn't reach him through the fence. All he had to do was spring away and alert the guards of an intruder. Genzo tensed, ready to flee when suddenly Vegeta's fist burst through the chain link fence like it wasn't even there. His arm snaked around Genzo's neck and pulled him back tight. Through the hard diamonds of steel, Genzo could feel the unnatural heat of the other man's body.

"Please," Genzo spat between bloodless lips.

"Please, what? Please allow her to forgive you? She can do that with you dead or alive."

"You can't kill me." Genzo cast around for a reason, for anything that would deter the demon at his back.

"Oh but I can. I'm the Prince of All Saiyans; there is nothing I can't do."

"They'll blame her. They'll say she sent you." Genzo could feel warm breath on the back of his neck as the man snarled.

"They would have to prove it first. You humans and your ridiculous laws." Vegeta chucked and Genzo spasmed with fear. "But we were just getting to the most important point of my visit. My recent revelation. I accept that I am a monster, and yet I cannot accept that you and I are the same, and by rejecting you I can finally reject _Him_."

Genzo quivered like a love sick school girl in Vegeta's arms. "Him?"

Vegeta pulled him closer and the diamond fence branded itself into Genzo's back. He would have whimpered, but Vegeta's arm was a steel bar across his throat. "My first monster of course, who else? You see my affiliation with Bulma has made me realize something. A perversion like you enjoys the kill. Savors it, feeds on it. For you the kill is just the disposal of a broken toy. How many women have you tortured before finally ending their misery? Ten? Fifteen?"

Vegeta tightened his grip on Genzo's throat when he didn't respond. The man clawed at Vegeta's bicep, but the pressure only eased when his struggles became languid. Genzo inhaled quickly, coughing as the air burned his lungs.

"Twenty-two. I've collected twenty-two in all."

"Hmm, have some bodies hidden out there do we?" Vegeta snickered, and Genzo felt dirty. He leaned closer to whisper in his ear. "I've killed billions. Do you think that an outrageous number?" Vegeta didn't pause for an answer. "I've decimated entire worlds. Wiped entire races from existence. I'm a planet killer and population purger. And yet you are the perversion, while I'm just the monster. Do you know what the difference is?"

Genzo carefully shook his head.

"I don't enjoy the kill. It is quick and clean, and hopefully over with before they can draw the breath to scream. I don't savor the kill. I don't revel in the hunt. And now that I'm free of_ Him,_ I'll never have to do it again." Genzo went limp in Vegeta's embrace, only to stifle a cry of despair when the demon chuckled. "Oh I didn't mean to say that I would never kill again. I have no problem destroying my enemies."

"I never did anything to you." Genzo's voice quavered with empty hope.

"True, but Bulma—." Vegeta's breath tickled the back of Genzo's ear. "Now, don't go telling anyone, but…" Vegeta's arm tightened across Genzo's throat as he paused. When he spoke again, his voice was low and conspiratorial. "I think I might love her."

Genzo stiffened with shock. Not at the confession. A man saying that he loved a woman was not unheard of. Genzo himself loved Bulma with a deep abiding affection that he would gladly sing of on the rooftops. No, what terrified him was the sense that the dark-haired man had shared a terrible, filthy secret with him. A secret that could not, would not, ever be repeated, and there was only one way to be certain that it wouldn't. Sensing the end was near; Genzo erupted into a frenzy of motion. He struggled uselessly against Vegeta's grip, his breath ragged as he spat out furious words.

"Is that what that two-timing bitch told you? She plays all sweet and innocent; begging for it with big, wet eyes, and quivering lips, but underneath she's just a lying whore like the rest of them."

Vegeta's arm slid away until he could palm Genzo's throat. Under his splayed fingertips he could feel the thrumming of the man's panicked pulse. A vision of Bulma's eyes, wide with earnest, prodded Vegeta's consciousness. Her visage was so full of pain and longing when he told her that he was leaving that it haunted him. Her scent was still clinging to him like a ghost, refusing to let him go. If he was any kind of man he would leave her behind, granting her the mercy of being rid of him. His fingers flexed and the Genzo's tirade fell off his fear-numbed tongue.

"There are many things I this universe that I am uncertain of, but the one thing I do know is that Bulma is incapable of lying." Even if her mouth formed the words, her body, her luminous eyes couldn't deceive. It just wasn't in her nature. Just like it wasn't in her nature to use people. He could claim to see ambiguous motives in her actions, but he would only be lying to himself. She had meant what she said. She wanted him for him, not for what he could do for her. "Unlike us, who were reshaped by the monsters in our lives, she can't be remade in our image. Even after being bathed in our evil stench she somehow remains pure. Her mercy is boundless. It is something to be in awe of, even as it is sickening to the core."

Genzo's entire being had been centered on the strong, crushing hand around his throat that he almost didn't feel the burning fist that tunneled its way though his spine. By the time the fingers wrapped around his heart, it was too late to scream, he was already choking on his own blood. The last thing he heard was the other man's breathing in his ear.

"Yes, I understand. Thank you for telling me." Bulma sat her iphone down on Italian pink marble vanity in her mother's immaculate master bath. She barely registered the conversation she just had; her entire focus was solely for the object in her other hand. She knew that if she glanced up at her reflection in the gold-gilt mirror that hung over the sink her beautiful oval face would be ashen.

"What did Detective Wong have to say, dear?" Bunny sat tucked away on the commode, her hands, usually fluttering around like a pair of excited doves, were clasped on her lap. Her bright bird eyes were intently watching her daughter.

"Genzo was murdered."

"Oh my, one of the other inmates?"

Bulma shrugged, her attention still focused elsewhere. "His heart was missing."

"Oh, I see." A knowing look shadowed the older woman's face, before it was brushed aside with an artful glance. "Undoubtedly one of the other victim's family members had their revenge."

"Undoubtedly," Bulma parroted in the same knowing tone.

Bunny sat watching her daughter frozen at the sink for what seemed an indeterminate length of time. She could see that Bulma was in shock, but there was a glow about her that was reassuring to the mother.

"What will you do now?"

Bulma didn't answer right away. She hunched her shoulders and brought the stick closer to her eyes to make absolutely certain that she was seeing a tiny pink plus.

Bunny's seemingly serene hands clenched in her lap, knotting in the light yellow chiffon skirt she was wearing. She glanced away from her daughter, suddenly afraid of what she might say. Her long hem had risen a few inches and she could see the toes of her white pumps peeking out. She should smooth out the material in her lap before it became creased, but she couldn't seem to relax her hands.

"I'll wait," Bulma stated quietly.

Bunny cautiously rose from her sink and wrapped her arm around Bulma's shoulders. Still uncertain she stared down at the stick with her daughter.

"And shop?"

Bulma white-knuckled the stick. She took a deep breath and carefully placed the stick down on the counter…far from the wastebasket.

"And shop," she confirmed.

Bunny exhaled the breath she hadn't realized she was holding. She tightened her grip, pulling her daughter closer for a one-armed hug.

"And love?" she asked.

Bulma collapsed against her, hugging her mother back in a fierce, full-bodied embrace.

"Oh, mama, I love. I love so much."

Bunny smiled through her tears as she wrapped her other arm around her baby. She held her close and dreamed of a grandbaby in nine months and if Kame smiled on them, maybe a strong son-in-law who crushed the hearts of his enemies.

THE END


End file.
